Poem: Ant Sting

 

 

Ant Sting

 

an irksome sockful of ants

swells my ankle to realize mandibles

as the forerunners of war.

 

and i curse

 

the unsoothing graveyard above,

and the crumbly switchbacks below.

 

unfazed by whiffs of sage,

or the summery musk of rosemary,

 

yes, i curse them both,

 

and too the loathsome nettles,

phacelia and longspur,

projecting from every niche.

 

as if the dry earth 

were nothing but a chuckle of cracks

which dare seeds and insects

to call such scorn home.

 

the same seeds and insects

that accreted and attrited over eons and eons

to stir a slow eruption,

 

thus humanity.

 

arid kin of the proboscis,

consigned to the desert,

jealous and bitter,

stung more than they sting,

 

they fret and pinch,

knowing full well we stole their secrets,

grew them into cities.

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