I wish I had eaten you earlier,

when you were a fig

and not

the womb of a wasp.

As it is, you are stinging

your way out

of my stomach, through

the dark caves of absence

inside of me. Alongside my blood,

humming, is your engine, your

thousand-per-second wings

fluttering like your hands

over my skin—but under.

I wish I had torn you open

with my teeth, to see

if you would bite my tongue

or go down easy.

If you were a wasp

then, I would open my mouth

and make you complicit.