The ants have come to our kitchen,
and so we must poison them.
We go to dinner as their workers bring
our slow-blooded gifts to the colony.
Walking in the last light, you point out
a neighbor’s blackened oak, its branches
spread skyward, offering of silence
from silence. Our eye leaps across rooftops,
the interstate, Mobilchem’s burning Gulf—
so outruns the promise of new bodies,
warming shadow and warm breath
on the ethylene tide.
|Copyright © 1999 – 2019 Juked|