3/30: Handkerchief of the Lord

by cabbythepoet

Twenty feet away,
I make an impromptu grave
for the red wasp
whose body I tossed from the air
with very little care as to the lost
swing in its wings, now sending
up to 32,500 non-conducting
electric volts through its
revolting revolving body

The fall is swift
its body dripping
with poison,
its body crucified,
barely hanging on a blade of grass,
what Whitman called handkerchief of the lord,
as to say, this will wash you clean,
and I hope it does,
at least for this dead predator
surrounded by pink flowers as big
as my thumb, the beauty of it,
a different type of sting.
No one is around to see
the moment of silencing,
where its body vibrated
hummed against the green,
then turned numb,
with nothing left to say,
not even an hiss, or a buzz,
and although,
I can’t imagine its pain,
I still know it by name.

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