Jared Beloff

Papered Labyrinth

a teardrop of a wasp’s nest lay torn open,
its belly spilling rage in brittle flakes. you cry out.
I think it is for me, holding my hand—
I have trouble remembering the pain of others.

layered wells between fingers. ours press
a pinched braid. I can feel your ring’s dark rim,
folds of skin polished underneath.
you show me where things have started to swell.

we don’t move, knowing fear has its purposes.
so does pain, but the wasps aren’t there for us,
already searching for hidden spaces.
their comb stares back through vacant eyes.

what song are we listening for on their wings?
I often look for you in crowds, a papered labyrinth
where eyes might lock, quiver like wasps
trembling in the corners, crawling on a tear.

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Jared Beloff is a teacher and poet who lives in Queens, NY with his wife and two daughters. You can find his work in Contrary Magazine, The Westchester Review, Gyroscope Review and elsewhere. You can find him online at www.jaredbeloff.com. Follow him on twitter @read_instead.