I am the zombie wasp climbing the sharp
tongued blade as the sun casts criss-ross
shadows in the tangled grass, and I rise
finally into open light dazzled, warmed
and blinded as my forehead opens third
fourth, fifth eyes blooming and the cordyceps
flower sprouts and spreads, spurting out
spores carried off on warm air currents


I know, says Emily, that it is poetry
when I physically feel that the top
of my head is taken off, but she forgot
to add the blossoming, mushrooming
filling of the mind with a voice not
your own, drawing you to clamber
out into a world no longer lonely
and feel the word-spores riding up
on your tongue to shout back to that
friendly yellow face the ancient call,
heard by you now for the first time,
taking hold, splitting you open
offering up your all.

David Banach is a queer philosopher and poet in New Hampshire, where he tends chickens, keeps bees, and watches the sky. He likes to think about Dostoevsky, Levinas, and Simone Weil and is fascinated by the way form emerges in nature and the way the human heart responds to it. You can read some of his most recent poetry in Isele Magazine, Hooligan Magazine, Evocations Review, Last Leaves, and Non-Binary Review. He also does the Poetrycast podcast for Passengers Journal.