My father ensures that the color of the suit is appropriate
Perhaps a nice porcelain or off-white
And feels his small boy-feet down into the pants
They are large, as they are supposed to be
Loose-fitting and crinkling into countless folds
So that the bees are confused by his form
The fabric swallows his torso protectively
Up and down the ribs, the most vulnerable part of anybody’s body
It is where they stab you
Which you might have known if you had paid attention to the summer production
Of MacBeth
Now his hands and arms are in the sleeves and he panics
Thinking he has lost them
Through some grand act of negligence
Until they emerge on the other side, unscathed and ready
There is a small collar around which is placed
The crown of mesh that sends a rush through his small body
He can see the bees
But the bees can’t quite see him
The fabric spreads out onto his shoulders and he slides the gloves on
He is worried that the fingers may suffocate
But it is unlikely since the devices are large and rough
Maybe his father’s pair
Since the child-sized beekeeping glove market has yet to crescendo
And now he is ready
Off to the hives
It is really a pity
The suit could not protect him from everything