The ceremony of the wasp
dying in the body
of a fig, and time passing, and inward
blooming—these are not metaphors.
See how the wings, antenna, bit
by bit, break from the body. See
how she doesn’t need them anymore.
Lying in the dark interior of the inside out
flower, children unborn and gathered
around her, children going to die. What
initiation is this? What beginning
to ripen, to become pearl, flesh,
red fruit? Love, fullness is not water
passing down the neck and forgotten.
The body must go, and no symbol can
carry the cost. You must
say yes, and the yes will grow
in you, bloom hundreds of days,
multiply tenfold, costing
not less than everything.