Tuesday, July 15
LAS HORMIGAS
They so liked breastmilk;
Joanne fell asleep & leaked,
the ants woke up, made the sweet climb.
Others were surprised to find
acidophilus, Soledad cleansing
her inside sex—they made their way
across her ivory sheets while she napped.
Ah, the little guys were rejected
by our sisters. But still, I feel
sad that in my new lodgings there
are no more glossy arrowheads to follow,
sprinkle with baking powder,
make a pretty cayenne path for
over the once-food-strewn
sill (they scent our past).
They can carry
their groceries
bag-free: & ants shop
in the honey cupboard,
thirst
like black hair being washed
in a sink. Car-waxed
black traffic jam—that's
actual jam, strawberry.
Once my curatorial staff.
But let them go on strike.
Those embodiments of intention;
they don't sit around playing
cards; perhaps they never
play, never horse
around. Hard-to-see-in-the-dark
jet numbers
on the radio dial.
Perhaps there is no laughter
in their chasm. Serious:
but they're able to stand up on hind legs—
a darling trick.
I want to give them
a little inkwell. A beachball.
The number of communal legs alone
exceeds the stars
underground.
They could be an orchestra.
A single one looks in the mirror
& sees a note. A quarter note.
So many instincts
massing as one. If I miss one little lover,
do I miss them all?
(Sandra McPherson)