Ant Ode
Black and crackling curiosity,
you can take the crush of my hand
or glass or chair leg and skitter
away, the plastic of animals,
Teflon finger of the nest, chitin-bright
layer-down of trail and track,
mind with the brilliance of leg.
Part honeydew, part nectar,
part dead insect heads, the ever-
intent, riveted, every second
a fork in the road for you. Everybody
someone to know. Every softness
in the wood an opening for holes,
like me, a deconstructor, sawduster, in and out,
restless fan of food and water,
making shelter for the brood. I’m torn:
you’ll riddle my place if I just
let you go; you’ll outstrip me
until my walls are slow clockworks
of you. Where is the colony, though?
I want to know. Curiosity, ant,
wandering marriage of thing to thing,
you freeze under my eye,
hide in still, plain view. You
aren’t my searching mind,
you’re not a part of me.
You came from the woods
outside. I’m inside you.
