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?