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.