Yellowjackets
When my father held his Bic lighter
to the nests in back of the garage,
the gray paper pulp sparked
then blackened. Ashes fell,
coating crawling ivy and clover.
A few yellowjackets fled,
one or two swirled, flying
into the sweaty face of my father,
but most too stunned,
their usual side-to-side swag
of a dance, flailing in the smoke.
When one landed on my arm, I stiffened.
His wings settled into a still gauze,
body coiled in yellow bands,
the same shade as buttercups we held
to our skin, cupping sunlight near our chins.
Every step, careful, quivering, as if neither
of us knew who was supposed to sting.
to the nests in back of the garage,
the gray paper pulp sparked
then blackened. Ashes fell,
coating crawling ivy and clover.
A few yellowjackets fled,
one or two swirled, flying
into the sweaty face of my father,
but most too stunned,
their usual side-to-side swag
of a dance, flailing in the smoke.
When one landed on my arm, I stiffened.
His wings settled into a still gauze,
body coiled in yellow bands,
the same shade as buttercups we held
to our skin, cupping sunlight near our chins.
Every step, careful, quivering, as if neither
of us knew who was supposed to sting.
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Disclaimer
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2013 by Karen J. Weyant and reprinted from Poetry East, Nos. 80 & 81, Fall 2013. Karen J. Weyant’s most recent book of poems is Wearing Heels in the Rust Belt, (Main Street Rag, 2012). Poem reprinted by permission of Karen J. Weyant and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.