Hornet’s Nest

Gray paper sack full of venom:
you’ve watched its dark door since the last
blackberry brambles loosed their grip
on jagged crimson leaves rimed
with silver, revealing the soft nest
suspended from a slender bar
of lightweight hooks and needles.
Now, though, when you come
with clippers, bear it home to hang
in triumph from your ceiling—
it looks different now. Swollen large
as a cow’s heart, ringed with barbwire
thorns, it pulses gravity like
some clouded moon, the blind black hole
at the bottom a wordless mouth.
First the earth, then its glittering
chain of satellite trash begins
to realign, to circle around
this homemade house, this labyrinth
of the female, of makers, one of
the endless ominous softly
throbbing hearts of everything.