Nest

Cal’s not doing so well, and I can’t think straight.

It’s almost his birthday, and I’m not home to be

with him. I’m in a cabin up in the New Hampshire

woods, in order to write. I’m writing this.

Craig was up with him most of last night, he said.

Cal was coughing and gagging, probably allergies,

and this happens every spring. But today Cal’s nurse

says he was wheezing and had a rough day at school,

his temperature a little up and now the babysitter

is taking Cal, Simone tagging along, to the doctor,

and Craig is leaving work early to meet them there,

to make sure Cal is okay. Albuterol, Benadryl, Motrin

don’t seem to be helping. Maybe he needs a stronger

allergy medicine, something prescription? Craig

will tell me as soon as the doctor tells him.

Right before Craig told me all this, I was reading

the end of a novel about a rich man who lost

everything and was going to his home country

to see if he could reclaim anything there, his birthright

and family property seized and stolen in the forties.

He arrived in Beijing and is wandering around, light-

headed from not eating and from fear. I didn’t

finish the book because I heard a buzzing. A wasp

I was sure was on the outside of the screened-in

porch was in. I thought we could co-exist peacefully

for a few minutes but then I thought about coming

back at night, or forgetting about it in the morning

and I didn’t want to be afraid. I decided that since

I knew where it was, could see it on the screen,

and that I had a good shot right now, I should get it.

It’s a wasp, I thought. It’s not a good bug like a bee

or a spider. It’s a bad bug, and will sting me if it can.

I thought I got a good weapon, a stiff cardboard box.

I didn’t want to use anything heavier, what if I broke

the screen? I steadied myself and pushed the flat

flat against the wasp, which pushed back more than

I thought it would, and it dropped and I dropped

the box. I couldn’t see it. Did I get it? I fled inside

and closed the door. Maybe it’s injured, maybe

just hiding. Heart pounding, I’m peering through

the window trying to see. I can’t see anything, just

the box I dropped. I don’t know how I’m going

to get out of here now. I think if that wasp is still

alive it will surely be out to get me. It’s strange that

just a moment ago I was so calm, so immersed.

Not a minute after I found myself trapped, my phone

buzzed. It doesn’t get much reception but the text

from Craig came through and that’s when I learned

that Cal wasn’t doing so well, and all the info I said

above, which is all the info I have at this point.

I know Cal will be okay. But how do I know it?

Do I know it simply because it has to be true?

Or because Craig says he’s not that worried?

Or does Craig say he’s not that worried because

he doesn’t want to worry me? Why am I up here

writing in the woods when my family needs me

if all I’m doing is failing to kill innocent wasps

and writing this, this poem I’ll never really finish.

This poem I stole from my fear, my endless fear.

I don’t want to find the wasp dead. I want it to live,

to find its way outside this poem, away from me

and the fear I know will find me again. I’ll go

home to my son, three days before he turns ten.