her hand is swollen
and red, a small
lobster curled
and about to be
dropped into a
boiling pot of water.
is the stinger out,
i ask her,
and she winces,
i think so, but it
still hurts. i ask
the bartender for
ice as she takes out
a tube of insect
bite goo from her
purse. she lathers
some on while eating
calamari, dipping
the little fried rings
into red sauce and
sipping on her
scotch and soda.
i hate bees she
says, if i pass out,
there's a phone number
on my wrist band,
my daughter will come
to get me. oh,
and do me a favor,
please don't write
about this, okay?
okay, i tell her.
i promise.
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