The Wasp

There is a wasp in my gut,

Cotesia Glomerata -

that must be its name.

Sound it out,

Co - te - sia,

Feel the burning, like an open flame,

Glo-mer- ata.

A whisper, not a shout.

Because this is no shaggy black dog that follows my dragging feet.

Barking and howling.

Demanding, sniffing, waiting while I sleep...

This is a quiet decimation that starts with an egg.

A seed pushed deep into soft meat.

In the dark, the wasp is drawn by hunger.

Gnawing in silence,

following the stringy flows of blood and muscle,

bloating with every bite.

And what comes from this later,

I wonder in the heart of the grey-yellow nights of mid-summer.

What happens when the soft meat is gone?