We have a deal, you and me.
We talked for 29 seconds
because that’s all we needed.

And you understood, you did
since you tried to cut me off
mid-explanation of why it is necessary
for you to wear blue.

Early hours blue.

So when you took off, didn’t say bye.
I thought, it was because
you knew what you were doing.

She knows what she’s doing,
I said to the other guys in the circle.

Then you came back, middle of the night
holding a bucket of kerosene.

I ate a bee, you said.
I asked if you were sure.

You looked at me like
there were only so many questions
you could take, standing there
with a bucket of kerosene on your hip

ready to wash walls.

I was eating soup
and there was a bee in it.
I ate a bee.

Then it died
curdling in your stomach acid.

I killed it? You shrugged
and I haven’t seen you since.

It makes me annoyed because, you’re tall
and easy to spot in a crowd.

KERRIE MCNAIR lives in Toronto. Her poems have appeared in Cosmonauts Avenue, PRISM International, and ditch.