BY MARC TRETIN

Thinking You a wasp, though merely a pink petal

blown from my late-blooming magnolia tree

I squirted myself with bleach. Amused and unsettled

by my wish to kill something I could see,

and ignoring the virus living invisibly on

my doorknobs, banisters, and mailbox,

and knowing how You so capably con

me, making me see goodness in hornets, phlox,

and dead baby birds, I sprayed my face and sleeve.

In an inadvertent act of faith and poor aim,

I missed what I thought I could see. With that squeeze

You made wasp, me, and flowers, one and the same,

along with that wren that failed on its first flight,

now home to maggots wriggling with delight.

Marc Tretin is a retired divorce attorney who is now devoting himself to poetry. During this long lockdown, he has the company of his spaniel and poodle mix with separation anxiety, a 20 pound cat with a foul disposition, his very sweet wife, and a young adult daughter.

Process Note: My process involves extensive free associating. I treat each potential rhyme as a prompt and have faith that the sonnet will find my meaning. I write to surprise myself.