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