About Ants by Jane Medved
The heat is rolling in, petals unhitched, bursts of curdled dust, and who knows what else, blown from the East, where bad things happen. Even the ants are acting confused, marking tiny circles next to the sink, trying to figure out a plan, with no ears, no lungs, little dinosaurs, looking for slaves, zombie ants, homeless ants, queen-cloned girl ants, protocols of sisterhood. I bought some poison to stomp them out, destroy their nest, invade their home before they find the toaster, the zucchini bread, grilled peppers cooling on the counter. I have no use for their astounding feats. I have heard of their prehistoric talents. I see their doorways lined up in the street, ash-mounds filled with blind workers, evidence of fidelity, let us call it persistence, stitching up the holes in the day.
Jane Medved is the author of Deep Calls To Deep. Recent work can be seen in The North American Review, The Normal School, The Seneca Review, and Guesthouse. She is the poetry editor of The Ilanot Review.