bee sting

My currently hideously swollen ankle (see attempted matricide) reminded me of the last time I was stung by a bee, and decided that I really needed to get rid of my hive. This is an abridged version of the poem I wrote at the time:

My hand slowly swells
as the venom spreads,
until, stretched smooth,
all the wrinkles disappear
and all the tiny hidden scars
stand out clear –
my history, written on my hands.

White parentheses
inscribed by a bird on my thumb,
a motley airbag brand on my wrist,
commas on my knuckles
where pause should have been taken,
and all the blots and scrawls
of simple daily carelessness.

I gaze at my hands,
remembering, and,
in some cases,
wondering.

Until the venom disperses,
and my hand shrinks and wrinkles,
aging years in each hour.

And all the scars are hidden,
and forgotten again.