The wasps are under my skin again,
their buzzing taking over
and vibrating my brain into ice,
breath cool but scorched words.
Heat in my face, on my tongue, on my lips
and only a dark cloud in my belly to blame.
I know the wasps will dissolve into sweet figs
tomorrow, or maybe the next day,
but I wish the ointment I brew from them
could be given now, with a kiss of apology
even though you always say you don’t need it.