Waspish Behaviour Poem by Colm Keenan

I saw it in the pool,
wings and legs wriggling in the meniscus
like some sort of prey tangled in transparent silk,
features of a wasp,
a large fat thing,
though its colours were dull, humble.

Taking pity on the creature,
I scooped it up by hand,
only to feel the abdomen twitch
and see a needle,
a tip of sun-gilded titanium,
perforate the soft flesh of a finger.

The sting caused my hand to shake the bug off
and back into the water it plopped,
once again wriggling legs and wings,
light ripples of poison rippling out to nowhere
or to somewhere’s disappearance.

Squeezing the tiny white wound,
as if a thorn had been hidden inside,
I thought of those who furrowed brows,
of those who perceived aid as threat,
and of those who stung their way out of freedom.