TWO POEMS
Jan 01, 2021
2 minutes
AMY BEEDER
Eating Wasps
Pre-apocalypse, things take on a certain radiance
our eye the dystopian lens lingering on death: a field of corpses, say—
then resting on an amber ditch where the assassin’s flicked cigar flares red.
And now I’m eating wasps. Did you know that figs are full of dead ones?
Not really.
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