The Greek Wasp

Fifty times more large and powerful
than the one’s we saw at home,
a hornet wasp, had entered our holiday chalet.

The clashing together of fear and marvel
dragged us individually by both hands,
down the path toward a mild sense of panic

Hornet had flown up high, traced a dividing line
between wall and ceiling in the oblong kitchen/diner/lounge.
A question to myself: to attempt coaxing creature outside, would it attack?

It was bigger than my big hand.
(both my hands are big, not one big – the other small)
I imagined it could quite properly kill me,
to deliver an accurate sting stung directly into my heart

“Open the door to the outside!” She’d shouted.
A sensible strategy, so I did so.
Less sense, my angry demand that the hornet ought quickly depart.

“Nah,” replied the hornet,
I am happy nosing around here, for now.”
(Dialogue translated from Greek)
The deep buzzing, like the approach of Sparta’s bravest heard from the other side of a hill.

“Brinky darling,” (this was when she still mostly loved me)
“Take deep breaths and calm thee.”
“But, it’s a fucking flying monster!” I retorted, with a voice turned shrill.

Naturally, the hornet wasp left
when it felt right, ready and due,
through the opened doors out it flew

With Ouzo poured into tall stemmed, thin glasses
our composure returned to the garden table,
Where talk turned to the open-air shower (led by you).

“Will you use it?” She’d asked.
“Yes, I will use it.” I’d said.
“Good.” She’d said.

Photo by HP KOCH

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