Dead Wasp

Surfacing, like a near-drowned rat, I come through the heavy surf of fall: grades done, comments written, recommendations sent. Futures tucked into little checked boxes online. Seniors wait. I gasp a break. But beyond my little realm, the world erupts again, the furies set loose now in France. The Erinyes, risen from the blood of vengeance to become vengeance, never stay quiet for long–no transformation into Eumenides–no kindness, no goodness–no matter what the myths say.

And on the window screens, wasps die. Antennae curled. Their shells cling long past. A reminder that summer once again ‘has all too short a lease.’ All summers.

Carpe Diem, they may call to us, but then again, they poison those who approach. How shall we spend the time given in a world full of such venom?

Wasp Mortality

Wasp Mortality

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