W.A.S.P.

I spent the morning trying to crush a wasp with a broom. It lighted on a curtain in the kitchen and stabbed downward at nothing at all, which might as well have been my face. If I puff up and my cheeks fill with blood and pus, just open the window and I'll float out and out of your life, and you can wonder if the wind has blown me toward the hospital, or further into the territory. When the swelling goes down, I'll return and do you the courtesy of a proper answer: yes, it was the hospital, and now my blood is in a jar on a shelf and my skin is antibiotic. I'll come home and the wasp will flit and light and so on, and eventually I'll pick its body from the broom needles.