My love, I’m sorry to tell you the ants have not gone away
though we hoped we could outlast them till winter. A cookie
crumb was left on the countertop, and an army is disassembling
it to take it into the wall. They spill from the floor, our ceiling
panels, and the sink drain. The ant spray ran out this morning,
and I cleaned the dishes with what was left of the dish rag, but
they are so hungry, they ate the glaze from our plates. The army
you trapped in the freezer was alive when I came home
this afternoon. When you get home, the kitchen will be covered
with their small, black bodies, marching in formation between
our home and Hell, where they were born. You and I are not ones
to avoid making a stand, so I will hold them off with a lighter,
and we will lock ourselves in the bedroom at the end of the house.
We will roll up towels and stuff them under the doorway. You and I
will lay on our bed and speak about our favorite things, looking
at each other. The towels will be devoured, and the ants will cover
the carpet before moving to the bed. Our faces, though, will be the last
that they reach, and I am glad that’s how it will go down. I will look
at you, nose to nose, seeing nothing else, forgetting the ants
that have now taken down the roof, collapsed the floorboards, leaving
nothing of our house but the chimney and our faces. I will lean
in to you, following only your hazel eyes, and as they devour
the rest of the earth our lashes will brush, up and down,



Troy Taylor is an emerging poet looking for ways to make poetry in audio, video, and on the page. His work is also in the Santa Clara Review and an upcoming issue of Zone 3. Read a reflective recap of his life every week at

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