Fay Dillof: Black Ants

Unable to sleep,
I imagine a blob
of ants, erupting
from a faucet.

If they puddle,
that will mean sleep.

But if each ant
descends on a crumb,
steals what it can
and lumbers robotically off,
which they do, branching in veins
across the tile floor,
then I'm left
listening to the sound
of my two sisters
downstairs
in the summer kitchen
where they're making
my mother laugh
without me
again,
carrying their prize
over invisible trails.

Published 2016. The black ants have a subliminal echo of black dog...