Yellowjacket

The way wasps want

      your house 

to be their house,

      so the dead

try & make

      your home

their own—they move in

      promising to stay

only a week, luggage

      stuffed with old

clothes & tinted photographs.

      Building their houses

of paper, buzzing, they draw

      the curtains, desilver

the mirrors till years

      later, look about

& it's your life

      the dead are living.

Wake & rub

      the night

from your eyes—the paper

      fetched wet

from the yard, the paid

      death notices

& ads for living longer

      unread. Mine

not the wings

      for such a flight—

Each day, later than you like,

      the lonely postman

force-feeds words

into the hungry mouth

      of the mailbox—

where this small

dunning bird has begun

      its brittle,

briefest nest.