The nest on the may pole is shaped exactly like a horse’s head.
Ribbons of orchid and lemon drift in the wind,
like reins brushing a papery, wild mane.
I watch the wasps in the garden,
hovering, diving, each with a task,
each with a life.
And they live like we live:
they eat sweet things, have babies,
remember the ones they love.
They only sting if they’re girls,
and only then if you trap them
or press them against your skin—
When I was young
I dreamed I was a girl wasp—
with transparent wings, a stinger, a slender waist.
I could never learn to be scared of them—even as they advanced
with my bare legs parted by the unyielding back of a gelding.
Even as the horse I loved was swarmed and I was spared.
They circled my father and I was unmoved—
I heard him wail, watched him strike himself
as they stung and stung, dancing on his welted back.
I trusted them,
as I trust all girls—
I knew what they knew.
