Wasp Tattoo
by Brett Warren

I was a truck, a train, a bulldozer. I steam-
rolled everywhere, drove the same roads
to and from every day, flattening the tasks
on my never-ending list, then stood in the dark
without a coat, waiting for the dogs

to finish. I told myself I could take it. I could
take anything, make myself impermeable.
I would not stop until it was over, and I didn’t
know when that might be. The obstacles
that popped up or blurred into view—

all mirages to be driven through. I was
fueled by rage and her sad sister, grief,
who was planning something much bigger
for the future. But then—a third sister,
and a surprise puncture

above my ankle bone, a poison-tipped needle
expertly inserted through my sock during a walk
in the woods. It was a kind of aggression
I suddenly understood, a brutality not meant
to be taken personally. I never saw the pinch-

pleated waist, the black and yellow stripes.
But I couldn’t look away from the venom
dissipating in pink clouds across my skin.
I was not titanium, not steel. No escape
from the pain, from the healing.

I still think of her, flying between worlds,
amber light prisming her thin wings—
little witch of wisdom and epiphany,
casting her spells, bestowing a blessing
I once called a curse.

PHOTO: Wasp and pink flowers by Bea Stern Chen.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I’m often inspired by experiences in the more-than-human world, which is where I feel most at home. Though this “tattoo” (the visual manifestation of the wasp sting) was temporary, I continue to feel gratitude and astonishment that an unexpected encounter with another species could vault me into a new understanding of a long, difficult period in my life. That a painful sting could, in a way, heal me. And that it could become a poem! I find poetry to be one of the best ways to become more expansive as a human being, to evolve beyond binary “either/or” thinking and embrace a “both/and” perspective, one that’s large enough to hold opposites like grief and joy, injury and healing, brokenness and wholeness side by side.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Brett Warren (she/her) is a long-time editor as well as the author of The Map of Unseen Things (Pine Row Press, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Canary, The Comstock Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, ONE ART, Pinhole Poetry, SWWIM, Whale Road Review, and other literary publications. One of her poems has been permanently installed at Eagle Pond Sanctuary in Cotuit as part of Barnstable Land Trust’s “Words in the Wild” project. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, Brett was awarded writing residencies at John Hay Writing Studio in 2024 and 2025. She lives in a house surrounded by pitch pine and black oak trees—nighttime roosts of wild turkeys, who sometimes use the roof of her writing attic as a runway. Visit her at brettwarrenpoetry.com.

Vessel
by Sheikha A.
— just maybe, bees, too, are important

When mountains were declared
your home, which was it that made

you cry: the blessing of living in rocks
for nobody to ever find your liquid gold,

or finding a wisp of water inside a stone
knowing it would sprout plausible flora

for your harvest? Which thought made
you build the throne for your queen:

trust in forbearance forging fruit,
trust in the spool of her foresight?

When you were chosen to be pure
in what you ate and then distilled

from your body, did it weigh down
like undisputed abundance; onerous

as the expectation to produce
an almost miracle, or did you carry

the mountains like a light breeze
on your backs, unfettered by design

of process? Detached as pollen
yet embracing the grains of life,

toiling distances, careful in storage
for each drop honouring collection—

unanimity of your colony’s labour,
grace in the system of your hive—

segmented and thronged, holding
steadfast to the grail, allowing none

to break your integrity of community.
Did you eye mountains as lofty homes

or ponder the fields focused on purpose?
When you were commanded to feed

did you with deliberated conscience
choose the bodies to nourish, or let

many sets of hands invade your space;
raider or forager, marking no exception

in distribution? Do you reminisce
the boulders among fragrant nectar,

dewy fields of fresh unfiltered green
when circling carefree stem to stem

assured no one would reach into
your homes? Have you surrendered

to becoming vessels; your belief
in the grander scheme of outcome—

Photo by Jürgen.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The inspiration behind this poem stemmed from an internal thought about how (and why) the living (being) creations of this world are important to keep a balance within the ecosystem of existence. Sometimes, we can’t understand why some bugs or creepers or even humans have come into existence for their superficial ugliness or decrepit design or vile cunning when the world could easily be inhabited by just beauty. So, then the question peeks through, who decides what is “beauty” and what is “ugly,” what deserves to live and what doesn’t? If all of ecology is a system of codependency, then why keep some alive and kill the ones that either make us curl and cringe or kill out of misinterpreted fear or even a basic need for survival? But, all of us have come into being with some kind of design and nature about us that directs our actions and ironically that action results in an outcome that is the very basis of ecological balance, whether kind or cruel. Ultimately, what remains to study is the “choice” that was taken/made that produced that outcome, whether we acted from a belief of purpose and if that purpose was from a sense of control or surrender, and how mystically our knowing or/and unknowing actions, one way or another, contribute to “the balance.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her poetry appears in a variety of literary venues, both print and online, including several anthologies by different presses. More about her can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com.