Bee Sting

by Laryssa Wirstiuk

On the morning radio show,
a caller says he was stung

by a bee, years ago, and still,
as an adult, he feels the prick

of pain on his forehead.
Simply receiving a haircut

or standing in cold rain hurts
space between his eyebrows.

In my car, I’m stuck in traffic
and wanting to touch this

man’s face. I’m imagining marks
of accidents, how some tragic

moments don’t even show.
What’s left to do but poke

the hole of my “innie” navel,
my first attachment to life?

Do not dare bare the midriff.
Do not speak of possible infection.

Do not reveal your name, caller,
for I, the listener, may be held

accountable for your phantom
ache to reenter that early moment.