Looking at a Diadegma insulare Wasp under a Microscope

It’s cleaning its head,

using both appendages,

running them from what would be the nape

of its neck up over the crown

and down its face, not unlike a person

drying after a shower or a swim. The gesture

so familiar, in spite of the exotic cranium,

round and shiny as a pearl of caviar

and overwhelmed by two huge eyes,

more like shields, carmine red

with evenly spaced black dots.

The wasp swivels its head

on a neck thin as sewing thread.

And of course there are the wings

with their unique venation,

the segmented antennae,

and barbed legs, the feet

with their twin splayed tarsi,

and that wasp waist, shocking

how anything that slender

could conduct the business of life.

All the while the thorax is expanding

and contracting, making me aware

of my own shallow breath.

And now it starts its head-polishing anew,

slicking and twisting. I’m transfixed.

A child again, staring through the hall window

that looked across the alley

into the bedroom of Zopher’s daughter

as she unbuttoned her blouse, shucked off her skirt,

and stood in her nylon slip, illuminated

by the naked ceiling bulb, brushing

and brushing her black lacquered hair.