I got a new car. It’s an ‘04 Dodge Neon. I decided to name it Britney, all shiny curves and blacked-out as it is. But I’d had it for only a couple of days - was driving it to and from class for the first time ever, in fact - when a humongous bee got caught in it.
It was strange. My front windows were rolled down mere inches, but I took a turn and nearly felt the thing suck into the car (it was probably two inches long, perhaps a lost carpenter bee). The right moment at the right time -
It was pinned to the back window as I sped along. It buzzed noisily, flailing against the wind desperately, bouncing against the window up and down. It would seem to tire, at which point it would cling to the back seats and dig at the corners. It did this periodically.
It stayed with me the whole ride home. I kept an eye on it in the rearview mirror, convinced that it would take my head off if it managed the strength to come back toward the front of the car while I sat at a stoplight or something. Anxiously, I pulled into a gas station and opened every door of the car to try and allow it to free itself. I waited - even tapped on the back window - for at least fifteen minutes, but it wouldn’t leave.
When I got home, it flew out just as I stepped out of the car myself, completely naturally, as if it had simply needed a taxi to the suburbs.
I ordered this, this clean wood box Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift. I would say it was the coffin of a midget Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it.
The box is locked, it is dangerous. I have to live with it overnight And I can’t keep away from it. There are no windows, so I can’t see what is in there. There is only a little grid, no exit.
I put my eye to the grid. It is dark, dark, With the swarmy feeling of African hands Minute and shrunk for export, Black on black, angrily clambering.
How can I let them out? It is the noise that appals me most of all, The unintelligable syllables. It is like a Roman mob, Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!
I lay my ear to furious Latin. I am not a Caesar. I have simply ordered a box of maniacs. They can be sent back. They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.
I wonder how hungry they are. I wonder if they would forget me If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree. There us the laburnum, its blond colonnades, And the petticoats of the cherry.
They might ignore me immediately In my moon suit and funeral veil. I am no source of honey So why should they turn on me? Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.