Survival

a poem

I need to tell someone
about the wasps
caught in the narrow crack
of the door frame.
Three of them, I failed to save
now shrunken and dried.
If motherhood is a gain,
it’s worth noting that I also lost
my ability to feel for tiny insects
wedging themselves into a grave.
Hot broth sits on the kitchen counter,
a lesson in parenting around every corner.
Still, it feels like God retracting the little girl
who poked holes in a jar and offered survival.