May 3: Tim Seibles, "Magnifying Glass," Ants

Magnifying Glass

by:  Tim Seibles

No one

would burn

your name

for not seeing

the ant’s

careful antennae

testing the air

next to your

shoe, six legs

almost rowing

it along. Who

would be upset

if you brushed one

off-handedly off

your arm, undone

by the tiny

steps: what do

they want,

you ask — unaware

that they breathe

through their

sides. Do they

sleep? Do they

dream

anything? No

one should

mark your soul

short     if you

mash one: when

two ants meet

there’s no tongue

for hello — it’s a

bug, a nearly

less than

little thing: at most,

made to chisel

crumbs

under the fridge

with eyes that,

even in brightest

day, see not reds

or greens but gray

and gray again.

Who would

curse your life

if you bring out

the Raid?

How many

books have they

read? — that

brain    a virtual

speck. Is all

they carry

really work

or just some

dumb old daily

ado? — the heart

spending

what blood, what

prehistoric nudge

on that

handsome,

brittle head.

________________________

I saw my first ant of the summer today, crawling along the pavement, as if expecting to find a picnic to crash.  It was tiny and black and moving a little sluggishly, I thought.  Perhaps it had just woken up from a nap.

Yes, I'm even celebrating ants this week.  I've always had this image of ants carrying summer into the world on their tiny backs.  They are as much a part of the coming of June and July and August as warm days and humid nights.  Thunderstorms.  Sunscreen and firecrackers. 

Pretty soon, Saint Marty's nine-year-old son will be outside, studying the ant mounds in the cracks of the sidewalk, imagining the tiny ant universe beneath.  Ant hotels and restaurants, hospitals and schools.  Churches and amusement parks.

August 1: Samuel Z. Arkoff, Empire of the Ants, New Poem

My coworker just left for the day.  Before she left, her husband dropped off her birthday present.  An iPad 2.  Very nice.  Just what she wanted.  I thought I was going to be quite jealous.  However, at the moment, I don't feel anything.  I'm not sure if my reaction means I'm numb, indifferent, or so consumed with envy I've gone into shock.  But my coworker left with a moony expression on her face.  I'm sure she's going to be spending the rest of the day playing with her new toy.

This morning, one of my best friends found out the results of a biopsy which she had performed on Thursday.  The biopsy was negative.  She was quite worried because her brother died of melanoma at a fairly young age.  I've been praying for her all weekend, had a whole army of my friends praying for her, as well.  Nobody can tell me that prayers go unanswered.

This morning, I mailed a letter to my daughter at summer camp.  I know she's doing great, but I still can't help being worried about her.

I have a new poem today.  It's based on my experience battling ants in my house this summer.  Because the weather has been so hot this June and July, these annoying little insects have invaded my dwelling.  Nothing can get rid of them.  They disappear for a little while, only to reemerge in bigger numbers.  After work, I'm going to stop at Walmart to buy a new trash can for the kitchen.  Something with a lid.   I'm about ready to set the whole building on fire if this doesn't work.

My poem is also inspired by a cheap, Bert I. Gordon film produced by the great B-movie producer Samuel Z. Arkoff in the 1970s.  It starred Joan Collins (that should tell you something).  It was incredibly cheesy and wonderful.  It was about a colony of genetically mutated ants that tried to take over the world.

A great, B-movie from Samuel Z. Arkoff

Throw in some Greek myth, and you have the ingredients for today's poem.

Saint Marty's headed to Walmart now.

Empire of the Ants

I remember the film vaguely:

Joan Collins battled an army

Of mutated ants, big as African

Rhinos, things still driven by insectile

Instinct to gather food, store it

For cold months, for a ravenous

Queen and her blind larvae.

Ants swarmed schools, houses, boats,

Like Greeks laying siege to Troy.

They carried off victims to tunnels,

Chambers of sand and decay,

Moved fast, in a perpetual state

Of urgency, because they somehow

Knew it was only a matter of time

Before Collins and her crew

Invented a magnifying glass

Big enough to fry thorax, antenna,

Wreak Armageddon, restore

The planet to its proper, human

Balance.  This summer, ants overrun

My house.  From a June and July

Filled with heat, drought, they find

Sanctuary in my cool kitchen,

The dust of sugar on counter,

Peach residue on bowl and rag.

In the mornings, I flip on lights,

Watch ants scatter like shadows

Across sink, floor, garbage can.

I press my thumb on stragglers,

Feel them curl, burst under

My pressure.  Most retreat until

Darkness returns, until they sense

Safety, like a crumb of brownie,

A core of apple, calling them out.

The way toxic waste called the mutants.

The way the horse called Trojans.

The way sirens called Ulysses,

Made the rocks soft, inviting,

Sweet as Penelope’s thighs.

Joan Collins making out with an ant