The Wasp
by Emily Bradford
dangles double-gartered legs
trails a heavy amber bustle
batters itself against metal blinds
soft, percussive, manic.
Across the room I stand rigid
and watch its restless orbit
—a swoop, a flicker,
a retreat to the sill—
I will not close the distance
not to free it, nor to strike, for I
am familiar with the fear and sting
of other things that threaten nearness.