Death lands on my fingertips,
asks if I want
to coddle it, if I want
to cup it and hold it close,
raise it, share a bed with it.

I am not sure what I've asked for,
if this was planned, if I was
a spiderweb to entrap
a sea to let you swim in.

A yellow jacket sings on the table
floats toward the color.

Do I, too, float towards the color?
Am I the spider, the web, the
     bug, stuck?

Shrapnel stings like the yellow jackets
like the wasp in my thigh.
Shrapnel that might never let go.