by John Milbury-Steen

I crushed a yellow jacket under my shoe.
Why? Because he sort of asked me to.
To all who ask to die I grant that boon.
But then the dying ring a pheromone
to call their kin out of the nest to sting
the one with albatross of insect hung.

I felt suspense, regret and even blame
before avenging squadrons, but none came.
His left was badly injured. His good feet
crawled with a right bias in an arc
as if he had a circle to complete
before he died, and then he met the dark.

Murder, guilt and pity likewise go
discretely in my soul in sectio.