Issue 80, Summer 1981
This morning I killed more wasps
Than I could count.
My thumb jammed on the spray-can.
And they plummeted from the rafters,
From the cheap rippled glass
Of the kitchen pane, until a striped carpet
Jerked over the floor, or lay curled and still,
Like hailstones of bruised velvet.
I don’t pity them.
Alive, they sizzled in my hair,
And stung me. Even their nest
Over the kitchen door, a grey loaf
Milled of wasp-glue and straw,
Resembled a shaped and frightening mist.
When I churned my broom handle into
It cautiously, a chaff of wing-wisps
Fluttered to the floor, like aircrash victims.
Now squads of ants are towing them away.
A lingering spray-smell
Says it is dangerous here to have wings,
Crawl, knit webs.