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The Wasp

Fearing the sting,
the shock of burning pain,
I gave the nest a liberal dousing of insecticide.
The winged dispensers of agony
exploded from each round, neat door and flew,
and maybe, somewhere, just as urgently died.

I went inside the house and did dishes.
When twilight was a deeper blue,
but I was still far from through with my task,
I noticed through my window
a single wasp
wanting to enter the nest.

He was thwarted in his wishes
by something alarming,
something new:
the smell of death.
 
Again and again he tried to go home,
but finally faced the truth:
he was bereft of the normal, the familiar.
He buzzed to a nearby tree,
then was gone.
 
Oh, my angers!
I learned so young to fear you:
even as a child I saw;
the destruction you could do.
 
No wasps for me,
but maybe I could house a bee:
it takes a sting to defend honey
and the flowers' bloom.
 
Denise Wong
6 July '01