Homeland Security

The four am cries

of my son worm

through the double

foam of earplugs

and diazepam.

The smoke alarm’s

green eye glows.

Beneath the cries,

the squirm and bristle

of the night’s catch

of fiddlebacks

on the glue-traps

guarding our bed.

Necrotic music.

Scored in my head.

And all night columns

of ants have tramped

through the ruins

of my sleep, bearing

the fipronil

I left for them

home to their queen.

Patriot ants.

Out of republics

endlessly perishing.

If I can hold

out long enough,

maybe my wife

will go. If she

waits long enough,

maybe he’ll go back

down on his own.