Brian Clifton
~
Apocalypse With Wasps
Their nests hung
in hard to reach
spaces, so you shook
the basement rafters
and soon the wasps
wrapped their swarm
around my body—
Their bodies forced
themselves in. My whole
being pulsated
with their hum.
They lifted me
as I crushed them
and you watched
holding your popsicle
stick god’s eye
until they dropped me
back in the yard.
Only then did you cake
my buzzing head
with Raid.
You wanted me
so badly to whisper
a prophecy blown
from the tip of a stinger
or to flicker with God’s
knotted stare.
You tweezed them
from my hair and swore
I glowed more
with each wasp
you took, and for this
moment you refused
to thank me.
~
Brian Clifton lives in Kansas City, Missouri. Growing up, he spent the summers with his grandparents in eastern Tennessee. His work can be found in The Denver Quarterly, The Pinch, Cutbank, and other magazines.
~