Living and Dying

A Poem by Marsha Posz

Daddy fell from a tree and
done snapped his wrist.
I was five years old and
tied his boots every morning.
His cast was in the way.
Mommy fretted a lot about the bills.
How could they pay for it all?
Money was sparse.

Then I went plumb crazy one day,
swallowed pills and drew razors
through my teenaged wrists.
Mommy fretted again.
I was labeled for life.
Who would pay for the pills and doctors
that kept me alive?

Doctors are sparse.
Daddy needs heart medicine and
Mommy still frets about us all and
worries about death panels.
All I know is sometimes I want to live and
sometimes I want to die and sometime
it seems like I can’t do either one.

A Swarming of Bees

A Work of Prose by Michael Estabrook

Last spring the bees were swarming searching for a new place to build a hive. Such a rare and special event you are so blessed the Bee Huggers tell us. And it is a marvel, almost romantic, watching them collect, 40,000 workers strong surrounding their Queen.

But we should have them removed: “They could sting the grandchildren or end up in your eaves or walls or chimney and then you’ll have real problems.” So we pay $525 to have the soccer ball sized swarm hanging from a branch above our driveway removed. The Bee Busters don’t use chemicals, don’t kill them, that’s a very good thing. Instead at dusk they vacuum them up in their torpid state and move them to a hive in another town kind of like a witness protection program for bees.