Las Hormigas

They so liked breast milk;

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?