Joelle Hann


I’d been drinking
in the kitchen.

A wasp on the landing looked lost,
its nose pressed
to the painted wood.

Its wings hummed along
to a private philosophical problem
or maybe it was waiting out an exit.

My foot in the expert’s shoe
squared off above it
cracked down
killed it.
                         A kind
death, I thought,
no delusions
no rage.
No one got hurt.