Outrage

I do not hunt.
I am a relatively gentle man
who wants only to love
what he can about the world
and leave the rest alone.
On this day I killed
what turned out to be
a lingering golden bee
that had come into our house
by accident. It was buzzing
and caroming around our kitchen
lost
furious
bewildered
ssearching for the sky.
So many times
I have cradled
with my bare hand
and what felt at least to me
like tenderness
a moth or some
unidentifiable creature
and taken it outside
to find its day
and more natural end,
but on a raw and random
afternoon in January
having just downed another dose
of global and national news
this is one more thing
that startles, knots the stomach,
yet another bizarre damn thing
that does not fit,
and I have no time to consider.
I kill the bee. I smash it hard
so that neither of us will suffer.
My chest heaves
as though I’ve been tracking
through hills since dawn
and hear something now
rushing up behind.
More than ever
it seems we have
so little room
to breathe.