Paper Nest

The angry Gods do not require us
          Or any wine we sacrifice to them.
          You feel so lost, so very superfluous?
Get over it. Just listen to the hum

Of glossolalia in the paper head,
          The fat and purple wasps half-spat across
          The field to blondie’s hair and brother’s red
Feathers. Ah, tongues of burning Pentecost

Will not serve anybody any good.
                    Red vipers gossip in the kitchen garden,
Brown moths put out the light, the color of wood.
A beetle died on the patio, a demon

Broken open, an empty fortune cookie.
          Two voices answer me: Wrap up the past.
          Expose the pupa’s face. Dissect the tree
Of bone, and scalpel down the tongue’s red shaft–

Such painful mercy, the sting we needed most.