top of page

Insect Order

by rebecca ferrier

If bees are justice then wasps are wrath

I decided on the afternoon my grandfather ran circles in his garden.

It’s me they’re after, he said, himself an oracle of pestilent ideology.

I was a child in his path. If he passed close

he could hand me the insects’ target as easy as a coat.

I would not take it, nor the wasps take to me.

Tell me I was not made for bees

when lately I have idled too long in rotten apples to know honey,

for even the tartest flesh can fold in sugar and heat.

My father began his run in later years,

shucking warm-hive sentiments for curved tracks in grass

and a fear of being chased by what moved faster than he.

I watch through hexagonal windows, mouth slippery

and waxed. Autumn is tired with drones

who’ve cut ties with their mother and curl quilted as memory

on the patio. In the quiet is humming: God, a hornet.

He measures me through circles his presence burns to air, says:

Apathy stings the most. I’ll take that, I’ll take it.


Rebecca Ferrier is an award-winning writer (The Bridge Award 2020) and recently secured representation for her debut sea-themed novel. Previous prose has been published in 'New Gothic Review' (forthcoming), 'Northwords Now' and 'Gutter', while her poetry has featured in 'Lighthouse', 'West Word Revue' (forthcoming) and 'Raceme' (forthcoming).


Image by Bree Anne
bottom of page