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  • The American Poetry Review

    TWO POEMS

    Jan 01, 2021 2 minutes
    AMY BEEDER

    Eating Wasps

    Pre-apocalypse, things take on a certain radiance

    our eye the dystopian lens lingering on death: a field of corpses, say—

    then resting on an amber ditch where the assassin’s flicked cigar flares red.

    And now I’m eating wasps. Did you know that figs are full of dead ones?

    Not really.

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