This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2023 Spring Print Edition.
Illustration by Watson Frank
The wasp recognized him at once
dude, prince, Buddha
for the wasp was an expert in things that bore fruit.
Butt punctured by; healed from
thorns of the ascetics.
If they so hungered,
did they know water could taste of color,
that of sparrows in particular?
Anyway, something dizzying about the way he smelled...
Why be still? The wasp asked,
maybe the Buddha still wants.
Well I am
expert of fruit
that are not really fruit but
quiet, inverted rooms
near the day’s wheeling areola.
So sitting mildly,
dude, prince, Buddha
inventoried a sting on his arm that burrowed,
and when the wasp reached his heart valve
he was visited by knowledge that a young baby wasp,
hatched, will soon drill its way out of his neck
and the younger sisters follow and find flight
to lay life elsewhere.
His muscle, recalling dew, grieves this parting preemptively,
while the wasp mother programs in him
the event of a sparrow—
She would die there, a mute dividual of suffering
and the epitaph too would be suffering.
Then light comes, an upwelling of his favorite prosodies.
Note: “water could taste of color, that of sparrows in particular” is taken from Memory for Forgetfulness by Mahmoud Darwish.
Mia Xing (she/her) is a senior at Columbia College from Canada and China. Her recent discoveries include osmanthus incense and brown butter in baking. She hopes to practice law and give back to her communities.