Mulberry Bungalow

I grew up in a neighborhood of bungalows
All swarmed together on an even grid
In uniform aluminum siding sprouting from
Their cinderblock Michigan basements

Our small yard was the odd home to a
Medley of mulberry trees and a
Lone rhubarb which had somehow
Found a home along side the aluminum fence

When summer came around each year
The mulberries would bloom and grow
And I would pick them when they
Were bright red, much sweeter than
When deep ripened purple

Nests of bees, attracted by the berries
Were common in the yard
And often made their homes in the small
Cracks in the mortar which bound
Together the cinderblocks

The blocks which propped
Up our home and formed a whitewashed
Perimeter around the rectangle box

Every year my father fought the bees
With cans of lethal poison waiting
For the evening when they were
All nestled in their hive

He snuck up slowly to the spot that
Then looked like nothing more than
An innocent crack in the white
Spraying the substance

Thoroughly vanquishing the
Workers and their queen

Every year he did this but one

This year my father found himself
Busied by some backyard project
And frustrated by the return of a nest
Decided to smear wet powdered cement
Over the crack in the mortar

In all his manliness he strode over
To the crack and plastered on the
Grey swipe, marring the perfect white cinder
Effectively blocking the exit

This year he would avoid the perfunctory
Trip to the hardware store and the ritual dance
Can in trepidatious hand
(with attached plastic straw)

In victory he laughed as my
Mother and I applauded our hero

For two long days and nights
The bees busied themselves in the wall
Presumed by all of us dead

On the third day our basement
Buzzed with joyous dancing bees
Freed from their soft mortar prison