New Poetry- by Anne Walsh Donnelly
My Therapist and her Bumble Bee
It circles overhead, like a drone,
as we revisit childhood wounds, talk of adult loss
and all that lurks in the space between.
The bee buzzes and burning beech crackles
in the stove beside us. Smoke seeps through a chink
in its exit pipe, clouds the room, waters my eyes.
The incessant buzz overpowers our words,
until the bee lands on a window sill.
She takes a tissue from its box,
approaches the insect. I’m afraid it will sting
her hand. She folds the tissue