Aletheia

17

Poem for the Male Fig Wasp

Sugar is all that the wingless
male fig wasp will know. Clustered
into a helpless crescendo of supplication,
his waxen universe swarms with flowing life,
the dense heartbeat of this purple bell.
His sisters’ bright bodies sing of honey,
spinning in their unvarying patterns of sweetness.
What a pity, they murmur in their rites.
How can he explain a life
so dark and lovely?
His head bends in surrender to season,
feeding the ripe rush of summer
as fertile as any myth.
He drills an opening
in the tender fruit for his sisters.
They scatter and multiply, raising raucous hymns
in praise of what they seek.
Amid the drone of new generations,
he crumbles in the sun.