THE SERMON
I
am a child
in
my Sunday best,
in
church, in a pew
behind
a woman
with
a wasp on her back.
The
yellow and black body
crawls
on her shawl
toward
her neck.
The
nape, so exposed, so supple
doesn’t
know what’s coming,
but
I do.
Will
it make it there?
Will
she jump when it touches her flesh?
Will
it sting her?
Do
I want it to?
Do
I know?
These thoughts run through me
like
a venom
as
the minister at the pulpit
reads
the homily—his voice,
escaping
from its vestments,
is
a buzzing I can hardly hear.
There’s
a flicker, all at once,
in
front of me, a fluttering.
The
little body
lifts
and bobs, ascends.
The
spindly yellow legs
angle
and dangle down.
I
follow it with my eyes.
The
tiny wingèd payload
rises
toward the hive of light,
hollow
above our heads.
This
sight
is
the sermon I saw.