What we were taught was nothing—
our history like a husk,
the desiccated wasp nest
my daughter found at the park
but disguised. Where is the life?
Where was the life in that?

History as it was taught
is nothing like that wasp nest
which has its particular grooves,
its exits and passageways
written in wasp spit and wood.

Looking at this nest I see
how everything was used.
Our history of a wasp
is its stings, but in this nest,
even dead, I see the ornate
stingless habitat, envision
nests with stingers subdued,
their larvae fattening
sleek bodies of use and grace.

History as it was taught
has been emptied and emptied out,
its intricate well-laid cells
disguised. They always teemed
with sickness, utility,
and violence. And each person
who happened only once.

Who happened only once.

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