I tied my hands behind me so I won’t hurt you,
but they get loose: slicing, etching the language of a strange
heart into sweet skin. You love the holly—knife-sharp
leaves, bloody berries trickling ink-stains. Looks like
Christmas, or an olde faerytale.
Will you save me?
Or tell me again
about the mud-dauber wasp
nest like a pan flute, laying eggs in a pipe;
and when tuned, larvae break out.
Catch me if you can. Then repeat: as
mother. How would you
raise your child differently,
mine asked. How indeed. (Bless the timing of waitresses.)
I’d like to reference
The laws of probability,
but all that comes to mind
is the mud dauber is unlikely to sting,
unlikelier to sing.
Or is it that we just can’t