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Column 520

Yellowjackets

Intro by Ted Kooser
03.08.2015

With this col­umn Amer­i­can Life in Poet­ry cel­e­brates its tenth anniver­sary. Thanks to all of you for sup­port­ing us, week in and week out!

When I was a boy, I was advised that if a wasp land­ed on me I wasn’t to move until it flew away. I did as I was told and got stung. Here Karen J. Weyant, who lives in Penn­syl­va­nia, takes a sim­i­lar risk.

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.

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Disclaimer

We do not accept unsolicited submissions

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.