Wasps on the Front Porch: Flash Fiction by Elizabeth Watkin (me)

By that point we all were wasps on the front porch. I suppose we could pretend it was against our will but we should’ve known the consequences. A consummate word smith, my punishment was to buzz only and dance to be heard. Even so no one wants to pay attention to a wasp for long because often comes the jab. And I do jab, because I can. Strong jaws chewing to make a home, I ruminate on the conjuring of that which I didn’t understand and got me here. The night we hummed to build energy, a sweltering solstice near an angry river. Fingers touched and my poetry was the command. The last touch I ever felt.