You have made of me an autumn wasp.
The last yellow gasp of summer has been uttered
and the air crisped around me, solidifying into
acorns. A quirky carpet for the forest floor,
pebble-dashing the places where leaves could
soon write our epitaphs upon the dying grass.
See the stripes you have painted upon me,
the fluttered slits on my thorax where light
and dark waned and then were made to wax.
Now with all my eyes I can see. I don't
think about the hours spent wasted, your
arms swatting the slant of my gaster. Your
mastery of my legs, my waist. The times
I came to credit that even I, hateful creature,
could learn to taste and blossom.
In between columns of oak, the gloaming softens
then rises sooted and smoked. I needed warmth
and a home and you promised me fruit. Only now
can I taste the undercurrent of the bramble,
the furring of the damson. Slurring my speech,
burdening my wings until I'm merely humming.
I am trapped behind glass. Through the pane
is a place where we can die, through the mercy of ice.
Smeared hands smudge my way and I cannot be free
though all I can see are the nutmegged leaves.
I beat and beat myself against the window
though there is no way now to go through.
Do not touch me; I will hurt you.