Waspmobile
There is a wasp nest under the hood of my car. I do not know this yet.
There is a wasp nest under the hood of my car. I do not know this yet. I turn the key and ignite the hum of the hive. The hum of the hive. The hum of the engine. Hive hum, engine hum, humming against one another: something close to a minor second, a warning, a hymn of hum. The car shakes. The car exhales a few wasps, as if the hive itself were breathing out. My jaw clenches. My blood quickens. Still the hum continues, steady, insistent, like something alive, like breath inside the metal. North on Southfield Freeway, the traffic hums its own hive. Cars coming, cars going. Wasps coming, wasps going. A fog of wasps around the car, a dust storm around me. The hive of the city. The hive of the morning. I have to stop and use the bathroom, but I’m running late. My bladder hums. My chest hums. At work, teachers wave away the wasps from the doors. Parents wave them away from the children. The wasps wave us away from their children. One hive protecting another. This car is eight years old. Eight winters behind it. I wonder if it will last the winter. Hives do not last the winter. Nests do not last the winter. But the hum,
the hum,
the hum,
the hum,
the hum—
Shea Socrates (they/them) is a teacher and emerging writer. They live in Detroit with their partner Felicia and three pets, Vashti, Coney, and Vern.
