Because I was terrified, I learned nothing.I had stepped in a papery nest of ground wasps:a hateful swarm of themwreathed up around me and writhedand sang wordless rage.One stung me on the neckand I think I was shockedmore than I was hurt:afraid of moving even an inchbecause that was what the world had become.I wonder if its frantic stingwas death for the insect whose mind was all red.I don’t know my mindso I’m making up a story:whistling past a graveyard.Something about a goose,forever honking and charging, flogging, flying.My grandfather thereand muscadines in the Georgia heat.My grandfather smoked Winstonsand what could be more Americanthan choosing one’s futuredecline. He broke one apartin his palm, spat into it,and smeared the poultice over my angry skin.Would you call it a wound,I asked a doctorbecause there are hurtsthat mean so little.I want to say nothing imprecise.I want to stand(like I could, then)in the pine shade of those treesand not fill upwith murky nausea, soothed some by nicotine.This will help,my grandfather said. Like magic, you wait and see.(This poem originally appeared in You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World.)