As we ran in the backyard
dad stepped on a buried bee nest
and screamed a word I didn't know
in a tone I recognized well.
As he ran-hopped into the house
through the sliding glass door,
I tried to catch him
with legs like a caterpillar.
Get ice, quick, god,
it hurts. It's swelling.
Once, angry, at dinner, he said:
my burger is bloody. And left.
Outside, the disgruntled bees stopped
swarming. Hums muffled underground,
their stingers resting, unlike their brothers
who pierced the soft skin of dad's foot.