“It’s my wasp trap,” he says. The mobile home creaks like a ship in the summer heat. I put my eye close to the glass half-filled with strawberry jam and pale orange cordial. Below the surface a handful of insects slumber eternal, imitating their ancient brethren encased in amber. A new victim floats on the mire’s surface. Angry. Powerless. Its wings beating spatters of jelly and juice up the prison walls. “How long does it take them to sink?” I ask. He does not answer. Just pries up the Peter Rabbit teaspoon sugared to the countertop. Hands it to me.
J.R. Gaskin is a failed anthropologist and educator who ran away to live in another country. Find J.R. at chalksnow.wordpress.com and on Twitter @ItsJamesRG.