My nets, screen doors, pins in a matchbox and vials on the lab bench do not keep the wasps away. I feel antennas on my hand, the creeping legs on my ankle. I hear buzzing under flickering light. Wasps have murals of Babylon on their abdomens, the black roofs against the yellow stretch of sunlight. They smother the insides of my walls, press the insulation aside with tiny segment claws, whisper their wings against the wires. They lay their larvae in the wood, I hear the house creak with their writhing bulk and I try not to breathe as their antennas twitch out of the cracks and I do not breathe until the morning.

I don't go outside. The hornet creeps when I close my eyes, body stained black with ivory markings - face of curved bone, antennas, and a twitching abdomen. I can see the cocoon hive bulges upsidedown, gray on gray eaves. It curves upon itself beside a rain gutter, surface smooth and whorled. A round black maw opens with a surprised "oh" and black and white mask reapers crawl out. They creep over the hole's cracked lips and on the miniature wrinkles of the shell gray cheek. The feathery surface rustles.

I open my eyes but I know that they are still there, outside. The slick-skinned black crawlers shove their full bellies under the door frames and through windows. Orange wasps with yellow and black shiver the air as they circle. They pretend to be bees until they are close, nearly too close.

Shut the door.