When Cece asks me
if she’ll die someday
I offer a few
shopworn phrases
and point her to
the ants building
their empire beneath
our driveway—
the strength in
their brittle bodies.
She can’t help
but kill a few
as she lifts them
onto parched leaves.
Look, Dad, the ants
are dreaming.
Sometimes at night
when I can’t sleep
I creep to her bed
to check her vitals—
heat at her temples,
her barely traceable
breaths under
the dark, and finally
my ear pressed
against her naked
back to listen
to her heartbeats,
their ceaseless
muscular power.
Who knows
what keeps them
working so hard
down below—
the ants lifting
crumbs of dirt
and a dead fly’s
wing to their hive—
while fall’s first chill
strikes my neck,
and a hummingbird
zips—chit chit—
after feeding
from blighted buds.
