It is a simple construct:
a box, really. No,
a cube—four walls, a roof,
a floor. In the middle: a boy,
a garden, matchbooks and bees.
Yellowjackets. The boy is sitting
Indian-style on the matchbooks:
they make a smaller cube.
There are many. He has a bowl.
In the bowl, bees. Yellowjackets.
Surrounding, bougainvillea petals that have fallen
from the vine. The vines, tendrils
through his toes, around him. Leaves in his teeth. All over
the floor, petals. All have withered.
They are like pink tissue paper, delicate
to touch, insect wings crumbling.
He is an unwrapper. He has unwrapped
most of the bees of their jackets.
He has unwrapped the bees
of their stripes, peeling them
from their fluttering bodies like removing the glue
from an TV Guide address label, delicately.
Once removed they curl into cursive O’s
and are put into the matchbook box he sits on.
You could stuff a Christmas present in a bag
with them if you are not a wrapper.
The boy is not a wrapper, either.
You are in good company.