Holy Saturday
Hummingbird Featured Poem
Holy Saturday
by William Fargason
I woke up hungover in the dull light
that fell in lines across the sheets.
I didn’t even drink that much. I didn’t
kill myself last night, even though
I wanted to, even though the thought
came in strong and unannounced
like a breeze through a cracked door.
This morning, I walked into the living room,
where, above the sliding doors,
the long horizontal windows cast beams
of light across the floor. In the corners
of the frame, I saw a yellowjacket,
or maybe a hornet, struggling to get out
of a window it couldn’t open. The world
on the other side must have seemed
so close. When I got closer, it fell
to the floor, where I saw it was a bumblebee,
those heroes of the insect world, the kings
of pollination. I grabbed a plastic cup
and a paper towel, scooped him up
as gently as I could—like I was
an elevator the bee was stepping onto,
watching his small legs sense the plastic.
—I could do this one good thing today,
even if the bee didn’t know I was
saving him by containing him, even if
releasing him meant I would be
alone again in my apartment. I took him
outside, into the cold spring grass
and flowerbeds. I bent down among
the mulch. I aimed the rim of the cup
to the edge of a daffodil blooming
in the sun. The bee left the cup and went
straight into the bell of the flower,
covered himself in pollen. I left him
alone and went back inside, to my walls
and my lamps and my air-conditioned air
that came back to me, from the fan
that spun on the ceiling.
Curator’s Note: A poem about loneliness, and also kindness. “A chance to do this one good thing today.”
Fargason juxtaposes the insect’s excruciating entrapment with the human condition, and reminds us that there is a fine line that separates us from despair. Published in The Common, January 11, 2024. SN
