Author Archives: Kat

The wasp is building a nest
outside the bathroom window.
She dips her sleek face
into each cell of it in turn,
each cell, so perfectly fitted
to her body, and to the next,
and the nest itself so carefully sited,
south-facing, behind the storm glaze,
and so warmed and protected
from both sides. She has not figured
perhaps, the strength
of summer sun through glass,
nor the brace of posions
easy to human hands.

For now, I watch her
as I brush my teeth.
She moves from cell to cell,
building a womb of paper
that might bring her eggs to life
and to the world. I do not know
if a wasp can love her brood,
but I am enough certain
that she would die in its defense
to fear her.

For a moment she rests,
then starts again the careful
repetition, and suddenly
all I can think of
is myself,
heavy with anticipation,
folding the same six pairs
of tiny socks, over
and over again.

The wasp is building a nest
outside the bathroom window.She dips her sleek face
into each cell of it in turn,
each cell, so perfectly fitted
to her body, and to the next,
and the nest itself so carefully sited,
south-facing, between two panes of glass,
and so warmed and protected
from both sides. It would be ideal,
but for the fact that I would like
to open the window, and
I would not like to be stung.

For now, I watch her
as I brush my teeth.
She moves from cell to cell,
building, smoothing,
then settles at the top
for a moment, then starts
again and for the life of me,
all I can think of
is myself, all big belly
and anticipation,
folding the same six pairs
of tiny socks, over
and over again.

It seems that something must be lost
each day: forgotten, misplaced,
or dropped and splashed or shattered
on the dingy linoleum floor
that has not seen a mop in -
well, you see, she’s a toddler now.
Still not sleeping, so neither am I,
so the only question is, what will it be?
Which detail omitted, which instruction
followed halfway before veering off
into some dark wood of confusion,
which sliver of glass will evade the broom
to lodge, sparkling, in my heel?

You wake from a dream of wildfire
to find it is your child ablaze with fever.
Her head rolls and she does not flinch
when you turn on the light.

She falls, twisting,
from the playground stair,
and screams and screams and
won’t be soothed.

Or even this: The radio
tells you that madness lives
in the hearts of men, that innocence
is no protection against it.

You don’t believe in God, any more
than you ever did. It is unwilling
as a ransom, but you cannot help
but mean now it when you say, Please.

(The Atheist’s Art of Prayer, I)

Watch this watch this watch me
mama watch me. On the edge
of the bottom stair, bouncing,

winding up for the mama
watch me jump! And she does,
and she lands it, and she’s awesome.