I know you can hear, I’m talking directly
to the power socket, the transparent plug
each copper wire visible, like a bisection
of brain, pineal gland folded, a queen
around a void, the nest hovering around
them. I can hear you chewing through dry
-wall, getting closer to the fridge, the Formica
table, the post-its with bill payment info. I’m
thinking the landlord is avoiding you, the life
of enzyme-dissolution, octagonal perception,
tunnelling, the pine dark of the house a mountain
crushing light, as an experiment: how can this
be made to pay rent? We are some
-times stuck behind the back-door mesh, antennae
without outlet, suddenly subject between wood
cliff-face and the expanse (we can’t manicure
the lilies, the landlord doesn’t answer emails and I’m
spheksophobic, life-long) of garden beyond. Land-
lords have the privilege of delegation, of knowing
their audience, between — as we are — a door of their
thumb, their razor forefinger … a housemate
clutching the Mortein limp like Excalibur, a Camlann
of orchestral buzzing for one — or both — of us. You
will chew through the wall to heaven, or I will
be other than I am, becoming wasp in my endless
flight. Bipedal, possibly, still, with six clawed arms,
human-sized head, with mandibles, clear compacted
eyes. Vestigial wings. Legs splitting like roots. What
landlord—or 80s style scream queen — dare face us?