Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue One

Melissa Dickson Blackburn

Yellow Jackets

Here come my boys, their mouths ripped open, a labor tears from their tongues. Each son bears a cargo of yellow jackets laced to his sleeves, his throat, one with a third eye, hinged and angry. In the bathroom, I strip and douse them, rinse their screams. And now I fight alone spraying Lysol to wet wings, swinging rags and brushes, dodging, stabbing at every flighted thing. The hill of black and yellow death swells, one monument to a mother's power.