Carpenter bees as thick as my thumb
thump dumbly against the windows,
like the knuckles of plump, drunk uncles
or maybe tiny lost dirigibles searching
for an empty hangar or a mooring mast.
It’s weathered wood they’ve come for,
especially the soft sort, like cedar or pine,
to bore with tunnels: shelter for the eggs
they’ll lay before dying. For me to find,
they’ll leave nothing but sawdust hummocks.
Late in summer, a new crop will emerge
to nuzzle roses, grow fat on sun and pollen,
and hover about my head on the noisy whirr
of their wings, never to know who dug
their cozy nests, or how they came to be.
This poem first appeared in The Madison Review (2023).
—
Kevin Grauke has published work in such places as The Threepenny Review, The Southern Review, Quarterly West, Ninth Letter, and Cimarron Review. He’s the author of the short story collection Shadows of Men (Queen’s Ferry Press). Bullies & Cowards is forthcoming from Cornerstone Press in 2026. He teaches at La Salle University and lives in Philadelphia.
