Ants in the kitchen

It’s getting warm outside

And the ants are coming in

I’m the type of person that will scoop up an insect and take it back out

But I cannot have ants in my kitchen

It pains me as I put a small line of insecticide on the caulking between the counter and the wall

Knowing they’ll eat the poison, take it back to their nest and die

Killing the rest of the brood as their bodies rot where they lie

Some hours pass and I notice seven of them crowded around the line of sweetened toxicant

While one lone ant stands at the edge of the counter, looking outward, guarding

Blissfully unaware that each brother and sister that returns is an insecticidal bomb, impending detonation

Little ant

How many times has my own ignorance led me to guard something dangerous?

How many people are standing on alert to defend something they claim as righteous, because they’re blind to its shadowed malevolence?

Observing you has been a quick lesson in patience for those who do not know whats behind the barricade will lead to their inevitable snuffing

And I hope that when ignorance paired with righteousness gets the best of me, or gets the best of you, I can forgive myself and forgive you, you can forgive me too

I’m so sorry little ant

But I simply cannot have you in my kitchen

He hijacked her dream
Crashed it into a wall of
Unpayable debt

Arms raised
Hands to the sky
I’m on your rollercoaster.

Stomach pitting, heart dropping  lows.
Vast highs that take my breath away with closeness to the sun.
I trust in the safety of you next to me, we are together so tightly we couldn’t let go if we tried.
And yet the gravity pull and blind corners leave me screaming in fear

And excitement

Lurching
Rattling
crackling

F a s t!! on smooth casters

Teeth clenched then a
Mouth thrown wide open because i can’t contain my stomach and joy.

We reel and swirl then
halt with a jolt

only to start again slowly

And take the ride around another time

Pay seven hundred
per month for health insurance
and act like it’s fine.

You and I worry
Hotel California is
just about marriage.

add pepper, parmesan
baguette, and vin blanc
stay for the stories
 

Someday, I’ll start over,
anonymous, in a new city,
where the past doesn’t cling
like a drowned man’s suit.

Just me un-selfed, unburdened,
free to sip exotic cocktails
from the patio of a high-rise
with a forever breeze,

by moonlight reading
over the shoulders of waves
as they write and revise
the beach.

Studded black leather,
chains, protractor, and compass –
learning Hell’s Angles  

One set of grandparents settled
on the north side of the Cumberland,
which had bus service and a Dairy Queen,

the other was rural & plotted with pig
& chicken farms. To get from one grandparent’s
place to the other we boarded

a six-car flatbed ferry that skimmed
the turbid water like a low-flying hawk.
The farmhouse was weather-beaten & had little

natural light except in the duck-yellow kitchen
where I loved to sit and shell peas. When no one
was paying attention, I loved to sneak

through the cedar drawers and black lacquered
jewelry box in the spare bedroom. Once I found a stack
of girlie magazines — Rascal, Nugget,

Monseir — & I stole one of them. Rolled it up
mail-box style & snuck it inside the side pocket
of my pink leather overnight bag.

As we travel the night ferry back, my eight-year-old
heart knocks like a ball-peen hammer. I feel the first
pollinated bloom of sex. A thrill! But within minutes,

I believe I have sinned. I stay up past midnight,
decide to crawl out of the window screen,
gently so there’s no sound of peeling paint.

Under moonlight I will trail to the riverbank
& with the girlie rags in a black plastic bag,
I decide to dog-paddle the half-mile across the river.

I know I’ll never make it. When I’m found out, my dad
will surely whip me with his leather brush. Worse,
my big sister will make fun of me for the rest of my life.

I’ve heard stories of drowning from the Cumberland’s
undertow. My shame swirls into the muddy currents
as moonlight flickers through clouds.

First he must find it
out in the haystack – a straw
which might break his back.