Nine eleven twenty sixteen

For Nathan, who didn’t kill a wasp

You scoop a wasp out of
your beer and it flies away,
half drunk, half grateful,
out of that particular fate;

little droplets falling against
the curious shadow cast by 
your glass (curious because 
it is the evening of the day).

That night I slept better than
I had done in a long time.
I didn’t dream of the day we
all stood in stupor looking
at the sky,
although I wish I could sit 
still in silence,

wondering at the stars.

Published in Eunoia Review

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