Poem: Ant Sting

 

 

Ant Sting

 

an irksome sockful of ants

swells my ankle to realize that 

mandibles are the forerunners of war.

 

i curse

 

the unsoothing graveyard of sun above,

and the crumbly switchbacks below,

 

unappeased by tender whiffs of sage,

or summery musks of rosemary.

 

yes, i curse both earth and sun,

 

and too the loathsome nettles,

those phacelia and longspur,

which jab from every niche.

jab, jab, jab,

 

as if the parched lack-of-soil 

was nothing but a chuckle of cracks

dared seeds and insects

to try and call its scorn their home.

 

seeds and insects, yes,

decillions and decillions of them

accreted and attrited over eons and eons,

slow to stir the foaming pot of life.

life on earth, under the sun,

thus genesis, behold humanity, and so

 

i am kin of the arid proboscis.

i am cousin of the desert,

i am jealous and bitter,

stung as much as i sting.

 

i fret and pinch, knowing full well 

that we human stole certain secrets from the ants,

grew their primoridial cruel into our cities.

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7/27/25. ..  hate hate hate this poem ... 

6/21/24 ... heavy mods

12/10 ... lots of modifications to the second half.  brutal.