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The awful thing about ants 

They truck across my kitchen counter. Bathroom sink and floor.
Occupy my home and breech parameters.
The spray poison reeks
And fails
And I surrender.
They find sustenance in the discards
Hidden under my kitchen sink.
And when a lone explorer climbs my walls or traverses my coffee table
I marvel at the tiny feet.
And gently blow when I need to.
They land like paratroopers.

And then I plan a party and know my normal

I offer fatal bait and they gorge.
Carry this hemlock to their nests and I awake to carnage in my bathroom.
A survivor walks a crooked line as it carries a body across the checkered floor.
Staggering, I imagine, until it lays its burden down with the other dead
The living have collected in a tiny mound
In front of my deep, white tub.

The bodies stick to a damp paper towel and I throw them in my garbage.
And must do it again and again before my guests arrive.
I cover them

So my guests
So I
Don’t see them.

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About The Author

Lynette C. Mullen

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