Ant Ode

Black and crackling curiosity,

you can take the crush of my hand

or glass or chair leg and skitter

away, the plastic of animals,

Teflon finger of the nest, chitin-bright

layer-down of trail and track,

mind with the brilliance of leg.

Part honeydew, part nectar,

part dead insect heads, the ever-

intent, riveted, every second

a fork in the road for you. Everybody

someone to know. Every softness

in the wood an opening for holes,

like me, a deconstructor, sawduster, in and out,

restless fan of food and water,

making shelter for the brood. I’m torn:

you’ll riddle my place if I just

let you go; you’ll outstrip me

until my walls are slow clockworks

of you. Where is the colony, though?

I want to know. Curiosity, ant,

wandering marriage of thing to thing,

you freeze under my eye,

hide in still, plain view. You

aren’t my searching mind,

you’re not a part of me.

You came from the woods

outside. I’m inside you.