Autumn Wasp

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.