4.9.25

Meanwhile, the ants have come again, 
at last, invading the kitchen and, soon,
unfortunately, the house. I am watching 

their tiny black bodies—so much like dashes—
crawl across a white desert, disappearing, 
sometimes, into the blackness of the cracks 

only to reappear again like a lost thought. 
I’ve killed four today already—drowned two, 
crushed two—though I’ve been told to spare them,

because when killed, an ant releases 
a pheromone which attracts other ants, 
to let the others know it has died. Are we like ants, 

then, I wonder; when we scream or cry or sing, 
are we not letting the others know we are hurt 
or sad or happy? If we are not ants, 

then what are we? Not people, surely, 
but a different kind of animal—one ashamed 
of its own sound, but making it anyway, always.