The Fig Wasp (Livia)

Pomona plants your figs and

Gifts you promises

That purple your tongue.

She teaches you how to

Grow your seeds.

 

August shows you the way

And you nourish your son

On much riper fruit

And know that you will never

Have to starve.

 

You chew the way

To pave his path,

Cleaning his poison,

Unthanked, building his palace,

While he packs your bags.

 

He spits you away,

Without pause to let you clean

Your hands, sap-sticky,

Undignified. He can take your title,

But not your wings.