stdClass Object
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    [ID] => 17758
    [post_author] => 16
    [post_date] => 2017-01-25 14:38:24
    [post_date_gmt] => 2017-01-25 14:38:24
    [post_content] => january and we sleep under bruise-light / and the wasps
smuggle themselves between the panes of my double glazing
and die. i’ve spent the new year living honeycombed
which means my thoughts are turning geometric—/

/—which means i want to hold very still and fill with honey
or some other reminder of summer. or to exist outside of time
and watch hollow wasps gather mouthfuls of dust like pollen
if pollen could exist in wasp-limbo between window panes.

in in-between spaces between seconds or windows or sleeping
and not i imagine sand dunes / i imagine a graveyard for wasps
where erosion is a kind of mourning. here is where we bury
thumbnail-wings and old sunlight and glass-shard-stings

and wait for time to pull them apart. forget how to think
in hexagons / and move. the wasps were dead from the start.
    [post_title] => the wasp graveyard
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => the-wasp-graveyard
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2018-08-09 11:59:34
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-09 11:59:34
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=17758
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
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    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2017
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem was a winner in the Winter Poems challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN) in 2016.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Winner, Winter Poems challenge 2016
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
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    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 17076
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Ella Standage
            [slug] => ella-standage
            [content] => Ella is a top 15 winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2017 and the first-prize winner of the W. S. Graham challenge on Young Poets Network as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations. Ella is the second-prize winner in Ankita Saxena’s protest poetry challenge, remembering 100 years of the women’s vote in the UK. Ella is also a runner-up in the Namedropping challenge and commended in the Ways to be Wilder poetry Challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield. Ella is a second prize winner in the Riddle Me This challenge and highly commended in the I Am the Universe challenge, as well as commended in the Young Poets Network Wish List challenge, a winner in the Winter Poems challenge and in the 2016 August Challenge #2. 
        )

)
stdClass Object
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    [ID] => 17076
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Ella Standage
    [slug] => ella-standage
    [content] => Ella is a top 15 winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2017 and the first-prize winner of the W. S. Graham challenge on Young Poets Network as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations. Ella is the second-prize winner in Ankita Saxena’s protest poetry challenge, remembering 100 years of the women’s vote in the UK. Ella is also a runner-up in the Namedropping challenge and commended in the Ways to be Wilder poetry Challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield. Ella is a second prize winner in the Riddle Me This challenge and highly commended in the I Am the Universe challenge, as well as commended in the Young Poets Network Wish List challenge, a winner in the Winter Poems challenge and in the 2016 August Challenge #2. 
)

the wasp graveyard

Ella Standage

january and we sleep under bruise-light / and the wasps
smuggle themselves between the panes of my double glazing
and die. i’ve spent the new year living honeycombed
which means my thoughts are turning geometric—/

/—which means i want to hold very still and fill with honey
or some other reminder of summer. or to exist outside of time
and watch hollow wasps gather mouthfuls of dust like pollen
if pollen could exist in wasp-limbo between window panes.

in in-between spaces between seconds or windows or sleeping
and not i imagine sand dunes / i imagine a graveyard for wasps
where erosion is a kind of mourning. here is where we bury
thumbnail-wings and old sunlight and glass-shard-stings

and wait for time to pull them apart. forget how to think
in hexagons / and move. the wasps were dead from the start.