A continent of ants
is streaming down
the bedroom wall
to the ant bait.
One hot day and
they’re back.
I have this absurd
optimism that
always thinks
perhaps this year’s
methods are sufficient
to hold them
at bay.
It’s a laughable
line of thought,
but I keep
thinking it.
I’m such a
slow learner
for someone
who started
out as a precocious
What happens
to that brightness,
that promise
and potential?
Where exactly
was it surrendered?
Maybe in first
grade when someone
said the candy box
would whistle
if you blew inside.
I don’t know if
it was disbelief
or curiosity
or dare
that provoked me
to blow it in
class, while
Miss Renfrow talked.
I was such a
good girl I escaped
It was a rare
brush with trouble,
and thrilling because
of that, as well
as the whistle
sound it made.
Listening to the kid
who sat beside me,
the early training
for where I am today,
faith bestowed
on ant bait