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Wasps

poem

Red wasps lay eggs in the soft
bodies of young butterflies,
unwanted gifts of pearly clusters
tucked deep like family secrets.
For a time, it is peaceful.
Quiet houses can hold the brightest pain.

Nothing stays hidden long.
Like drunken daughters,
criminal sons,
they split the belly of their
delicate home
spill into spring air.
Later, you see them at your window
gleaming and sharp,
dark jewels in the morning sun.

About the Poet
Angela Howe-Decker teaches literature at Notre Dame de Namur University and English at the College of San Mateo. Her poem "Home Cooking" appeared here earlier this year.