Wasps

I came to help them; the wasps

were begging—not with words, but with violence.

Folding themselves thicker than the trees; they fight

to fight. I knew what was wrong (we all did)

—each had a weapon. I replaced

stingers with lips to change their gore

into the smallest kiss imaginable.

Still, they were killed.

Visitor

Obsidian-colored with a frame

like a bullet train you crawl

across my floor.

Silent as a distant light

until you run along the unread

mail at the foot of my La-Z-Boy;

then I can hear the chatter

of your steps. You move

to the sound of a pen or a finger

tapping. Only then

do I realize you—a small, vulnerable

demon. You work more constantly

than you should. Even when you leave,

I imagine you moving.

Trying to Stop in a Garden

An old fence harbors a cluster of vines,

which unhappily looks over a brighter bed of flowers.

Stones quoting Carl Sandburg lead me through the green landscape.

It’s impossible to keep my mind silent with insects

hurling themselves at my face;

none seem to notice my need

for the world to stop and let me remember

exactly what brought me this way. The wind, just as restless

as the bugs, at least only strokes my face and tussles

my hair gently rather than biting my cheek

or asking my ear, in a tin-throated

vibration of desire,

if it holds some secret nectar.

Don’t mistake me for a flower.

I’ve been eating bits of you

in my food—a testament 

to your ever-presence. I can’t understand 

how such small beings can move so vivaciously, 

while I only wanted to find a place

to rest myself and think.

A Bug Inside

A fly is fighting against a window.

Green-black and shining like chrome,

throwing itself against its transparent oppressor;

its wings moan like a vacuum cleaner

trying to suck the color from a square of carpet.

What is it about you I can’t stand?

Am I worried I’ll be the next target of your frustration?

Does your noise make my silence seem brooding?

Do these frantic attempts at escape make me wonder

if I shouldn’t be trying to escape as well?

I take the lime green flyswatter—

much more flimsy than a weapon should be—

and wait for my adversary to rest.

When it stops, its tired body looks like a trinket

begging to be picked up, shoved into a pocket,

forgotten. I strike at no particular part of it—

it’s body so much smaller than the weapon.

It falls onto the window’s frame—wings beneath it,

legs extended into the air—motionless.

I stare at it for a moment, wondering why I decided to kill it.

Then it starts to twitch. I failed to give it a quick death.

No, no death at all: it rolls itself over, rubs its wings, and buzzes off.