In each of the fourteen jars
on the sill above my desk:
a paper wasp. I didn’t know
what else to do when they started
bumbling the air, long legs
dangling like an airlifted cow’s.
I watch them clean
their beautiful faces. I watch
them move up and down
the jarsides. They can see
each other, warbled through
the lettering. I put
myself in this room most days,
put my mind into the machine
before me. At first I’d usher
them out, open the door
to spring’s thin air. But more
& more kept coming and I wanted
to forget my body. Only one
so far has died, dry
and curled. I could put it
outside for the birds. I could
use the jar for another and
another and I don’t think
I’d feel badly if I didn’t
put them on the shelf above
the screen of the thing
I put myself into. But I did. And
of course I can release myself.
Of course I can do that.
—
Elizabeth Bradfield’s seven books include Interpretive Work, which won the Audre Lorde Prize in Lesbian Poetry, Toward Antarctica, and Cascadia Field Guide: Art, Ecology, Poetry, winner of a 2024 Pacific Northwest Book Award. Editor-in-chief of Broadsided, Liz teaches at Brandeis University and works as a naturalist and field assistant.
