BRETT WARREN

Feeding the Bees 

Yellow flags pop up like daffodils 
along our street, with stick-figure 
icons of children and dogs 

to warn of poisons 
in chemical-drenched lawns. 
We’re outnumbered

but we keep trying to make a sanctuary 
for the more-than human world. 
We turn off outside lights at night. 

Leave the leaves and let dead stems 
stay tall for insects who overwinter 
in their hollows. We plant Selfheal, 

Ox-Eye Sunflower, Blazing Star 
to feed the bees. Our lawn is gone, 
replaced by pine chip paths

we hauled ourselves, back when 
we had a truck, before the hybrid
and electric cars. But still 

the oil-burning furnace. The truck 
backing up our driveway, 
a cyanide capsule on wheels.

The stains it bleeds on the asphalt. 
The asphalt. The final insult: a bill 
printed on thermal paper, fluttering 

in the sun, tucked by the oil man 
into the seam of a storm door 
that won’t keep out what’s coming.