sting

The first thought is of the creature that coiled itself into her bra
as she sailed down the Norwottuck Trail on an afternoon blissfully free
of obligation. The sting was not immediate, but she knew it would come.
The poor thing flailed and fought its way out with no success.
By the time she stopped the bike, the agitation had mutated
to attack. The wasp thing stung her by the heart and initially,
it was just that - a sting, a pointed, poignant arrow at her skin.
But hours later an ache had spread to the left and right of the mark
as the poison leaked deep, and to fight it she thrust her feet
more vigorously into the task of pedaling,
as if distance would keep her ahead of the pain.
But the further she went, the larger the bite swelled,
a red and raw reminder.
There was a price to pay for letting go.
The wasp escaped, then died behind her.