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Day 14: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)


My father had never slapped anything.

Even he did not kill a long-legged 
wasp carrying spring 

dirt from the field. He poked it 
with a flyswatter and said, 
“Please leave, Mr. Bee…” 

My mother said, 
“Kill it now,” 

and brought insecticide.

We used to live on the fifteenth 
floor,  but we occasionally had wasps. 

My sister and I dropped 
things like dolls, colored pencils, 

and gumballs over the balcony. 

Sometimes these things 
stayed in one piece. 

When we could not find 
the doll’s left arm, we climbed up 

a fence in the dark quadrangle. 

There was a small wreath. 

We looked up at the building 
and saw a narrow 

square of gray sky.  

My sister asked, 
“Did someone jump?”

We quickly recited a Buddist sutra and ran.

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