The black and yellow wasps
came at us from all directions.
None of us could remember
seeing so many before.
They hovered venomously
over stacks of raw hamburgers,
attacking the sliced tomatoes
and open cans of coke.

It must have been global warming.
Winter had been very mild;
then the wildfires came.
That Fourth of July weekend
was the nicest of the year.
We didn’t let the little bullies
drive us indoors. The children
wanted to play in the sun.

My daughter, two years old,
was fascinated by
the tiny, glittering creatures.
Suddenly she reached—
I jumped to swat it away,
but her baby fingers closed
around the droning insect.
An alarm went off in my heart.

Her hand opened slowly
as she brought it to her face.
The yellowjacket sat
seeming to look back at her,
then flew from her palm,
just brushing her cheek,
zooming up and away
as she giggled and waved goodbye.

I thanked God and her guardian angel
for this little, miraculous mercy.
If only every one
of her close calls could end
so happily, so harmlessly.
Or if only all of those
who had the power to harm her
would spare her from injury.

March 29, 2024

About the writer

Glenn Wright is a retired teacher living in Anchorage, Alaska with his wife, Dorothy, and their dog, Bethany. He writes poetry in order to challenge what angers him, to ponder what puzzles him, and to celebrate what delights him. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Modern Literature, Rundelania, In Parentheses, WestWard Quarterly, Amethyst Review, Sparks of Calliope, The Chained Muse, A Time of Singing, and other journals.