Poison, 1959 Poem By David Wojahn
Sixteen wasps against a fallen apple, hissing green,
bejeweled & dappled. A child can bend
to their seething, astonished as they drain
the sweet fermenting juices. But insecticide
can change them utterly & the child can briefly
consider God, now incarnate as himself,
(in those days the poison of choice) & He sprays.
they mutate, strafed they still. & what child
does not covet many eyes, to weave & hover,
weave & sting, to expel like breath miraculous
paper & build,
for himself a palace wondrous strange & infinitely
Of many eyes the world is the made. Infinite are its
& its sibilant wings. Therefore they each must perish.