~PAMELA
GARVEY~
THE
WASP
NEST
GROWING
INSIDE
OUR
WINDOW
FRAME
It's eating the air. Cell by
cell,
tiered hexagons take over, tumorous
and hollow,
and still I forbid you to destroy
them.
I clean the glass over and over
to remove all smudges and dust
from my display case for the queen's
brood. I do it
to glide my finger over the nest
down to the thorax and pinched waists
of the wasps who, breaking from
their labor, crawl along the pane
and finally fly through the screen's
tear
and away from me, trembling at the
ledge.
How cold they seem: their bronze-black
flesh
guarded by that smooth pin, source
of poison and offspring.
The blessing of winged life:
to have wisps of limbs,
to hatch into a haze of black flight
breathing spring
with all its seeds and blooming
colors.
I retreat to your body, as if your
embrace
could stop the choke of pollen
or slow the yearly thaw
that cues the queens to leave their
nests
and roam the flowers for mates.
All that fathering
and so few queens. Is that
the privilege
or the price of her royalty?
Does she even notice me,
so close to her kingdom I fog the
pane with my breath?
Would she lead an attack against
me,
wait for me at the door or wait
for a forgetful slip—
a tired hand cracking the window,
my wrist exposed to her nuns
whose sterile stingers only hunt
and burn:
the attack always plural,
arms pocked with fires under the
skin. Such fierce mothering,
it frightens you. Touch the
glass, ticking with their heat, all of it
from these virgin mothers
who warm the eggs by flapping their
flight muscles . . .
warmer . . . warmer . . . lean my
body into the window,
slide your hand down to my pulse,
a pull
toward the pane. Let me taste
the sweat of your fear.
When I can feel
your heart aching against my back,
why search for the good?
Why defend my creatures
who'd be bare without their needles
of venom,
who can't even boast the yellow
beauty of bees,
not even the hum that warns?
Because wasps are quiet.
I love them. They are my darkness.
© by Pamela Garvey
