On the Steps of the Met

Stephanie Bolster
From:   The Malahat Review #120, Fall 1997

When the first wasp would not stop flying near me I sat still
and let it stay. All thin legs and yellow, it did not find my skin
but the silvered mouth of the Pepsi can. It crawled inside

and then another joined it there. I let those two
fill themselves while I finished my greasy knish and thought
how I would soon not be here and how painful

not wanting anyone. One wasp staggered out
and flew, and then the other, and in Manhattan
they were two cabs on their way in one direction. Inside,

what I had loved most: the folds of the woman's scarf
in Vermeer's portrait, their depth of shadow,
how the fabric came so close to itself without touching.

Poem 1 | Poem 2 | Poem 3 | Poem 4 | Poem 5 | Poem 6

Stephanie Bolster's works copyright © to the author.