The American Poetry Review

TWO POEMS

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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