Bees see me coming a mile away.

I whisper through a Funshine Bear cloche
with a junk mail floor,
“Let me show you your chambers,”
and open the door
to a porch I painted just so
so I could disappear into the wild unjudgement of vines and tree and wild things.  

I’m careful but inept
—a leg ripped half-off—
—a broken wing—
More than once.  

It is a microcosm of grief, pollinated
by every
tiny
regret.   

I know what it is like to disappear  

And they know I am a terrible hero, but a half-decent mom
–if petty—
–if codependent—
inclined to indulge, desperate to be forgiven.  

There’s a tunnel dug in the rafter just above my favorite porch chair. 
In the spring, I can’t hear my thoughts for the boring.
A constant chittering click of the trigger of constant, low-grade misophonia.   And sawdust falls in my cocktail.
Can’t have a damn martini in the warm months for the bees’ constant brooding.  

What I’m saying is I’ve got a problem with my bee hole.

From their home, its door no bigger than my little finger,
they can see my searching

How are the bees doing?
What do carpenter bees like best?
Can passion flowers grow here?