By Sorrel Briggs
A wasp flew in through my window,
So I did what I was taught to do;
I trapped it under a glass.
Time passed as I watched it struggle and writhe
And stumble and blunder and try to fly and
Falter, bemused by the newly altered light
And the looming pair of watchful eyes
That blurred into swarms
Through the gleaming, taunting walls
Of its octagonal prison.
I didn’t mean to leave it there
But my stare withdrew,
Slipped out the door,
Arm-in-arm with indifference and
The remains confronted me later, like an accusation:
The coiled form, shrouded
In its shrivelled yellow jacket,
The crumpled legs and ashen wings,
Detritus of a life.
Later that night, I dreamt of glass cages
And swathes of white light –
And I trapped beneath it all,
With the walls sealed tight,
Of a prison of prisms
Splitting the waves,
Of a constant hollow drone
And a tightness invading
The light, the noise, and the suffocation
Waltzed me into seasickness.
A week later, I spotted a wasp in the sky:
As I passed idly by, I saw it swoop and
Dive with a burning purpose,
Right into my eye,
And then retreat into the blue;
So precise was its target that
I knew it accused.
Image by Blake Burkhart via Flickr Creative Commons