Sonnet #291

Things feel wrong all the time, like we

Walked down a road and got lost there

We pretend we are not lost, we see

The way things are like this, the most

We do about this is we say to cowboy up

To strap your big person pants on and work

Until you can’t even think about how we struck

A bargain to begin with that began with so much hurt

I am waiting for my son to wake alone

I can hear the wind blowing outside;

I remember how the parasitic wasps’ bones

Are built upon the agony of a moth child,

When the fig tree beckons, I savor wasps’ work

The tree envelopes, too, becomes the shape it hurts.