The wasp

You were loud. Hovering vertically at my window. Demanding rather than asking to be let in. You did not wait; assumed if you made enough noise the glass would break, yield itself to your stripes and void-like eyes. You did not wait. You did not knock. There was nothing kind about your entrance; there was nothing tangible to forgive. And once inside you looked for spaces into which you could fit. My cupboard, my bed, the space between the wall and my head, and like a man you found my legs. As if the window left ajar for a cool breeze was an invitation. As if the insertion of yourself into my morning wasn’t enough. All I could do was sit still; afraid of antagonising a predator that with enough will I could crush into dust. Afraid of the racket you made between your filthy hands – wings – as you moved around me, as if inspecting me. Your eyes remained pitch abysses and your legs writhed in the joy of trespassing. All I could do was sit silent with anger, anger which could crush you if I let it. But I like the taste of sweetness and I fear anaphylaxis- the fatal sting of a man denied- so I waited and let you hover until you finally retreated; knocked yourself senselessly against the glass until I opened the window wide and let you leave. I like the taste of sweetness but listening as your buzz dissipated into the breeze, as I watched you fly free, the bile in my throat was bitter; I should have crushed you, melted your stripes into one gooey, unidentifiable mass, before discarding you like dust. 

You are dust. Dust, dust, dust.



Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020

My poetry collections:

Flowers on the Wall UK

Flowers on the Wall US

Between the Trees UK

Between the Trees US

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