Outside our new house,
I spray Raid over gutters infested
by carpenter bees and a few wasps,
because I’d rather have my partner,
allergic to stings,
alive than the bees.

I don’t stay outside to watch
as their nervous systems
sizzle and pinch,
as they seize
then flop to the concrete.

I don’t want to see
what I’ve done.

But in my sleep, the bees revive
– potent mementi mori –
to unsettle my own nervous system.

For inexplicable reasons,
I explore an abandoned campsite,
where hives grow like mushrooms
(single or in pairs)
on partial toilet paper rolls
stacked askew
on a clapboard shelf
drenched in dust
and cobwebs.

Out to my car,
I find nests

of a multitude of mud daubers,
small dirt balls dried and blended
with familiar wasp hives,
hexagonal partitions
of khaki-grey paper
the color of antique parchment
or a tea-dabbed napkin.

The next day,
I check Wikipedia,
only to learn
that mud dauber nests
look nothing like
my dream.