Putting your groceries in my trunk when another wasp crawls into that gap in my side mirror and this happens all the time: they go in headfirst and never back out, then they rattle around when I brake too hard. Two years ago I’d call it the Dead Wasp Graveyard, Dead Wasp Sepulcher, then all of the sudden I loved you and it was a Dead Wasp Rave, Dead Wasp Orgy, Dead Wasp Shaken-Cocktail Bar, the sound became not their bones breaking but their bodies! dancing! fucking! knocking against the ice in their glasses! You shake us something with mezcal and I take a long sip of the blurry up-and-down of your arm in the kitchen window light. This golden heat. Your papery tee shirt wings. I could crawl in the gap between your collar and your throat and buzz or something. You could crawl in too and we’d know, then, as if we don’t know already. What the wasps are up to.