Ants

Ants march on my arms, I smell flood.


The anarchy of clouds and my ambitious neighbor drown our season’s harvest,

just as it did last year.

We look anorexic. 

The contour of our body blurs,

taking hours to recall the face to match the voice.

A narrow opening in the jammed window

Bring in air to breathe, to allure, demure and becomes a plague.

We emaciate, vaporize from tactile responses

To images, memories, fantasies.

A shadow casts itself in the mirror

Stares back at us to scare

And you pretend not to see.