Carpenter Bee
by Alexandra Malouf
Little one lying in the crack of pavement:
exoskeleton of black,
wings like window-panes
glinting in soft light. I lift you white-fingered
from the ridge of ant dung, weeds, detritus––
into the warm hollow of hands
cracked by over-washing. You settle
like a street penny,
borne home to bumblebee fuzz,
black wasps,
shaved hornets
preserved in glass,
little jagged-limbed paintings––
so that when bees stop falling
I will still remember.
Ruskin collected insects in bottles,
shelved moths among books and flowers
while the aroma of wild garlic bled into pages,
into insect bodies and upholstery fibres.
In his house I saw myself reflected:
the compulsion to carry home the whole earth.
Oh, little one lying in the crack of pavement––
I find your body peppered by wind,
limbs strewn apart from thorax, split head,
the four wings like scattered glass. No one will notice.
Tomorrow you become part of the earth.