Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

— Virginia Woolf

The Wasp Nest

by Tobias Peterson

[44 13', 54", -94  57' 28"]

 

Whose fields are these?

 

Red river clay speckling

her dressing gown.

 

My husband is in

the Spanish word for moon.

 

The distant windows holding

glare or lamplight.

 

He once wrote

the law of sighs.

 

She did not admire

the low-slung fog

approaching breath

 

He scattered the fox

who gnawed the green

from every stalk.

 

or the winter sun

glazing the barn roofs.

 

He trapped it

one Thanksgiving.

 

Spittle snowed over

her soiled blue ankles.

 

Its tail was humped

like a question. Its jaws

held a wasp nest.

 

The silence of her hair

flailing in the wind.

 

The cells were swollen

and papered with frost

but I wore that stole on Sundays.

 

Woman, where

has your husband gone?

 

It was a halo of flame, yes,

even now I feel it humming.

 

 

TOBIAS PETERSON holds an MFA in Poetry from Texas State University. His work has appeared in Analecta, Fiasco, A-pos-tro-phe, Dirt Press, The Gulf Coast Review, and Popmatters. He teaches at Clark College in Vancouver, Washington.

 

The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.

—Cervantes, Don Quixote

© 2016 The Indianola Review

 

 

holds an MFA in Poetry from Texas State University. His work has appeared in and . He teaches at Clark College in Vancouver, Washington.