Why the wasp was on my bed I didn't
know. Why I was in bed I did know. Why
there wasn't room for both of us I
didn't know. I watched it idly. Idleness
can be a form of dying, I did know that.
The wasp didn't communicate how it felt.
It did look confused on the white sheet,
as though it had landed somewhere in the
Arctic. And it did flick its wings when
I raised my legs, causing an upheaval.
I didn't want to be lying there. I didn't
want to be going in that direction. And
so I say it was a gift when it rose into
the air and, as wasps do, expressed itself
in a sudden and well-aimed motion.
Almost delicious was its deep, inflexible
sting.
("The Wasp", Mary Oliver, printed in Blue Horses, 2014)