Sarwa, says be kind
to the wasps, show respect.
They’re at the end of their lives
just looking for some sweetness
before they die. Give them
what they want. I don’t think so,
I say, remembering one that crawled
into my can of Pepsi, the way
my lip swelled up that time.
And how come he notices
wasps but can’t see Govinda -
once Molly - worn out with looking
for their son Ramen, who’s twelve,
stoned three days in a row
while Sarwa sits drumming
in the late summer sun at Glastonbury.
Even so, for a moment the world
shifts on its axis, as one by one
the wasps land on my apple, caught
in rapturous absorption.
I can even see the delicacy
of their wings.
But when Govinda finally packs
her bags to leave him,
it’s Sarwa who looks up
as if he’d just been stung.