The military precision of a bembix wasp

         which I’ve taken to calling Putin, for reasons

            that aren’t yet immediately apparent to me,

menaces my hive of native bees, beady and

         bland, that pour from the manufactory at the

            east corner of the yard at the merest rumour

of nectar. The wasp’s wiry body is as ready as a

         rapier, as neat as a needle – the latest technological

            advance for cowing a population. Native bees

are stingless, so what can they do? The thing

         walks among them like a mechanism from

            space, grim and deliberate, its death ray

unnecessary, crushing the thatched roofs of

         quaint village cottages. I’ve taken to calling it

            Xi Jinping. I’ve taken to whispering ‘fascist’

at it when it points its indifferent eyes in the

         other direction. I am powerful as a native bee,

            too squeamish to crush this little grenade. 

When the wasp’s children start hatching,

         the hive will die. If the bees fought harder,

            would I love them less? If the wasp was

more beleaguered, would I love it more?

         The Despot, the Tyrant, the King, watches

            me with its laser guided eyes and records me

recording it. It doesn’t care about me at all.