lessons_from_paper_wasps tender_square the nest appeared one summer, a tumor hanging from the struggling maple. you heard their winged vibrations when pulling buckhorn in clenched clumps, while your husband stayed inside and cursed the sun: the two of you building combs with conjoining walls in silent grief. he collected spit in a bedside cup; you gave your aborted poems from dead wood, limp bodies of plantain pollen to mix. not rain nor wind nor thunder could shake your house of sunder. but cold crushed the pupa parts within your cells awaiting imago. 220330 what's it to you? who go blather from