The Last of the Bees
Argentine Army, March 1981
Three hours into my second day
Of coming to ripen
In this courtyard
At the center of a grand building
Protected by muted WWII tanks
I was finally picked and led into the back
Of a light truck
With two other sleepy-eyed kids
I asked the man in sunglasses
Palming my summons
Could and would my parents be notified
Gazing downward the man
Mumbled something
Under his mustache further obscured
By his uniformed driver securing
The latches on the cargo door
As they slunk to the front I prayed
Let the engine stall let it die
Let us go back to the patio the shade
To the last of the bees
In the vines above
Their wobbly lines made more
Disorderly through the sudden
Early afternoon draft
***
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Photo by Nestor Galina/Flickr
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