I heard it first, like the sun had heated up the earth so well the earth had begun to sing
a swarm of them, maybe three hundred outside my backdoor
a community of insects looking to rent our passionfruit vines
enquiring about space, about the smell of the place.
I contemplated a big stick or the garden hose then thought of honey
called pest control, asked the council what’s to be done with intimidating
squatters. Apparently if I did nothing it might pass, like the silent lover
who will not ask why her man turns away when the lights go out.
My children stayed indoors, my dog eating under close watch
those bees hunkering down in a brown cone of ownership
taunting the dried clothes, as if they would never again know
the safety of a chest of drawers.
At night I dreamt I comforted a friend who’d had bees of her own;
in the morning the bees were still there
their sound reminding me I can never own the home in which I dwell:
even the walls answer to mites, even the skirtings suffer mice.
Just last month it was the apricot tree.
How unimportant my two feet while birds pecked at the best of our fruit.
How pompous it was to say the apricots were even ours.
Even my dog could not razzle the bees from his favourite pissing spot.
Even my husband did not know where to stand.
The birds circled round, not knowing where to land.