I cripple some ants.
I don’t mean to, but I do.
Others I squash flat
Leaving one liquid dot
Beneath each creature
Like a wandering third eye,
A floating caste mark.
I fear ants in my food.
They terrorize with quizzical
Patterns, tiny hammers,
Wood screws. They invite
Free-loaders to freckle my floors,
Doorways, drains,
Banana skins, bare toes.
I slip ten corpora delicti
Into a business envelope,
Bless them, seal their paper
Tomb with kisses, tiny and wet,
Iron the paste with my fist,
Address it to
What doesn’t return.
