Poetry

Spring 2007

 

 

Ann Cefola

Anthem

After flicking the ant off my knee, I watch it scale
the floorboard and contact the wall.

In seconds by the bed stand near the light,
wandering on white plaster like a desert expanse.

Later, fumbling around the marble lamp base,
it seems to like the light. I want to say he seems to like it.

He sniffs the trail of something long forgotten,
a cup of coffee, a vitamin, a perfumed hand reaching for a book.

Is he missing his tribe? Is scent, like a silk thread,
able to take him where the others swarm my outdoor porch?

I consider the exterminator who will come Monday
and I am godlike in my ability to cause devastation and plague.

It brings me no joy: I would rather use a bull-horn
to announce This house is for humans, not a formic feast.

We will meet again one day, both of us wandering
around the light, and I will explain that.

 

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