SEASON KAM

Elegy

On our last warm afternoon together, a wasp stings me in the garden.
A pinch so small, I’m more surprised than hurt
by its intrusion.

I lift my shirt and show everyone
the little square of skin, newly foreign to me.
A friend, after a few drinks, offers to pry the stinger out with a butter knife.
My children examine it as I stand before them naked,
five fingers tender on its anger.
“Bees die after they sting someone,”
my five-year old reassures himself.

If wasps could speak, I wish he would’ve just told me
he was scared.


The thing is that when the element of surprise wears off,
the venom continues to weep.
The more I scratched, the more the bruise refused to go,
migrating and unfamiliar.

There’s a scar now, at the place where we touched.
I wonder where he went after—my friend—
after he escaped by doing the one thing he knew to survive.

Season Kam is a psychotherapist, writer, and lover of stories. She was born in Singapore and now calls Toronto, Canada home. When she isn't chasing her kids around, she can usually be found on a long walk. Her previous work is published in Imprint Magazine.