Rooted in rich, dark soil beside
[.poemindent] my grandmother’s smokehouse [.poemindent]
[.poemindentmore] where hams hung and cured, [.poemindentmore]

a brooding domicile flourished—
[.poemindent] a green, object lesson in which [.poemindent]
[.poemindentmore] the males of tiny wasps had [.poemindentmore]

their randy, predestined way
[.poemindent] with unhatched females so that [.poemindent]
[.poemindentmore] they were born already filled [.poemindentmore]

with the next larvae
[.poemindent] for more metamorphoses, [.poemindent]
[.poemindentmore] ovipositing, the shedding of wings, [.poemindentmore]

then dying, and supposedly
[.poemindent] for the most part, being dissolved [.poemindent]
[.poemindentmore] by ficain. But I was happier then, [.poemindentmore]

in lush ignorance, simply
[.poemindent] slurping plump fecundity, [.poemindent]
[.poemindentmore] and even later when I still [.poemindentmore]

only imagined figs burst open
[.poemindent] like sparklers as nature morte [.poemindent]
[.poemindentmore] for a Renoir, Cotán, or Ribot scene, [.poemindentmore]

till I learned of the core
[.poemindent] staying polluted with pollinators. [.poemindent]
[.poemindentmore] Yet the very Son of God, knowing [.poemindentmore]

all this, would’ve eaten, craved
[.poemindent] them in fact, and cursed a tree [.poemindent]
[.poemindentmore] that was barren, maybe as a message [.poemindentmore]

on the importance of usefulness,
[.poemindent] or on the strength in belief, or possibly, [.poemindent]
[.poemindentmore] on not thinking any of creation unclean. [.poemindentmore]

[.imgcaption] Sarah Goldbart, Nature Morte II , acrylic on wood, 2024. [.smalltext] Used by permission. [.smalltext] [.imgcaption]

Learn more about fig wasps .