PAPER WASP
A mystery–
black crepe-paper wings,
antennae tipped in orange–
they come every autumn.
I sweep the floor, turn around,
there one sits as if risen
from between the cracks.
Tap, tap, tap-I look up,
another flies at the ceiling.
One, languishing in the
sink’s food strainer, startles me.
The fliers migrate from living room
to kitchen. Some, quite still,
near death I presume. The dog, who
inspects everything, ignores them.
I light paper and pine to smoke
them out of the chimney, put saran wrap
over the floor vents, tape the spaces
between the window and sill.
I have yet to find a nest.
I slap a yogurt cup over each wasp,
slide the envelope underneath, release
them outside. Most wander on the rail.
Limb by limb, legs curl under, wings
fold over the back. Antennae
stiffen, the wasp slips into death.
