Scripture, or Ant Anatomy for Beginners
In early March, an infestation of odorous ants. They must come
from somewhere in the walls. Ground too frozen for survival.
My husband brushes them off, could care less about the nuisance,
while I wonder why I rage at their arrival, their black trail
thick as a noose as they march toward the Borax I baited in the corner.
*
I watch myself as I poison them and their food source.
Whatever it is, this is a darker me. This stomp and squash.
*
Higher self. Angel in the ghost-light. Why do I waft and drift?
Why was flesh made so easy to tackle? Wounds in me,
why have you never healed?
*
Maybe I’ll turn into an ant. Accept the funiculus and mandible. Acidapore,
tarsus, head. I’ve a lot to learn. How not to drown in a spring downpour.
How not to cave too deep. I have to learn ant-speak.
Like an undertone
with antennae. A low roll, a thin glaze, a wish.
*
I follow what’s ahead of me into the kitchen. My husband is gone
for the weekend. He forgot there was extra baklava near the coffee.
I desire now a turn to it like honey. I guzzle and maw. Amen, I say, as I drink
and feast. Amen, to the dark and light that compete in me. Amen, ants. Let’s eat.
Originally from Pennsylvania, Alicia Hoffman now lives, writes, and teaches in Rochester, New York. Her poems have appeared in a variety of publications, including Thrush, Radar Poetry, The Penn Review, Glass: A Poetry Journal, The Night Heron Barks, SWWIM, Atticus Review, and elsewhere. Her book _Browsing as a Guest_ is forthcoming from Gnashing Teeth Publishing. Find her at: www.aliciamariehoffman.com.
Amethyst Review 