Breach

Not so small,            the black ants of spring 

             invading               in erratic blunder. 

      One moment, nothing—a fragment 

                    of memory—furtive,         evasive,

then           sudden startle. 

I hate to touch them.                If I can annihilate 

I do—

                    swipe them to the floor; 

they flee the foot.                  I know       to drag them, 

each body       resilient—the crackle       

of exo-skeleton—      ebony gloss 

extinguished,   segmented legs like   clotted eyelashes. 

                            How do they survive

           plummets                   and ricochets,

      random landings—counter,      sink,       baseboard?

They wedge             in any crevice.             I sense them 

                but        never expect them.

                   I tell you

                   I have seen                        half-crushed ants

resurrect—uncrumple,                 rise, 

                                        disappear. 

          So many places to hide,                  not just the kitchen. 

Here                    they dart in the bath,        

          phantoms among                                spidering tiles 

rimming the tub.           One ranges  on the yellow ceiling 

                   upstairs            or—

      is it a shadow             within my head?       What

do they tweezer away            in their           mandibles?         

    They           have penetrated            the ever-settling 

house. 

                     We are de-                 stabilized.                 Poison 

rings the foundation,         traps line 

                   the counter seams.                      Nothing 

            inoculates.                   The skelter        of their bodies 

thrums in my head.       Asleep,              I dream

          their tunnels                hollowing

                   the budding trees.