Ants, poem by Joanie Mackowski

The picture caught my eye, the poem captivated and entertained.

Silver Birch Press

by Joanie Mackowski

Two wandering across the porcelain
Siberia, one alone on the window sill,

four across the ceiling’s senseless field
of pale yellow, one negotiating folds

in a towel: tiny, bronze-colored, antennae
‘strongly elbowed,’ crawling over Antony

and Cleopatra, face down, unsurprised,
one dead in the mountainous bar of soap.

Sub-family Formicinae (a single
segment behind the thorax), the sickle

moons of their abdomens, one trapped in bubbles
(I soak in the tub); with no clear purpose

they come in by the baseboard, do not bite,
crush bloodless beneath a finger. Peterson’s

calls them ‘social creatures,’ yet what grim
society: identical pilgrims,

seed-like, brittle, pausing on the path
only three seconds to touch another’s

face, some hoisting the papery carcasses
of their dead in their jaws, which open and close

like the clasp of a necklace. ‘Mating occurs
in flight’— what better way? Weightless, reckless

rapture: the…

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4 thoughts on “Ants, poem by Joanie Mackowski

  1. Marilyn Armstrong February 8, 2014 / 2:03 pm

    Tell me they aren’t as big as they look! Please!

    • fictionfitz February 8, 2014 / 2:08 pm

      I don’t know, but I am with you. Not moving any closer.

  2. Carole Webber February 8, 2014 / 2:52 pm

    This made me itchy.

    • fictionfitz February 8, 2014 / 3:48 pm

      I thought you would have a few in your house, your porch?

Comments are closed.