Here we are now, the wasp trapped between the window and me.
He feels the cool breeze of freedom but cannot find his way out.
This is the last time I’ll see him alive. But he’s moving on
and so am I. You can only think about dying
for so long. Today I am speaking in the mother tongue
in which living and dying is the same language. Today
I want to hurt something, smash something between glass and hand.
The wasp in his black muscle T and stripped pants so tight
his ass looks like a bubble. I tap the pane. Watch his antenna move.
He must feel grounded. Or trapped. Misses his mother.
God save the queen. God’s mercy is missing.
Maybe he’s lost hope. Maybe he wants to jump.
Or wait for the wasp rescue squad that’s just not coming.
And after his passing, I will hold endless memorials for him.
I’ll speak fondly of him as if he never made the wrong choices.
Never climbed around my neck to sting me. I will never forget
the redness, the swelling—the gift that keeps on giving.
But you must move on and so must I. Does he believe in posterity?
Decorum implies that that I stop but retaliation seems the only way.
I am the horrifying other who can’t be located or identified. I am
God’s missing mercy. Today we’ll gather our incomplete information,
our faint knowledge of each other, and plot each other’s destruction.
You cannot find your way back to the cool breeze of freedom.
This is the last time you’ll see me alive. Today I struggled. You struggled.
The universal “you” struggled. Without sentiment. It happened.
Here we are now.