Ants
The first one I found, I killed---
a light pressure of the thumb on that part
of the pillow where he would lay
his head. In his absence,
I kept to my side of bed and ate
my meals there. I watched
the television as it changed the color of my legs:
mauve, brown, yellow, midnight snow.
More ants found their way
to my hand, like an aftermath of sorts,
and died attempting to take away
the dead. It was summer;
the Gulf War stayed between us like a molar
the tooth fairy never came for.
I easily fell into the habit
of sleeping with the lights on.
This morning I woke to the sun
on his pillow---the absence of ants
lead my attention to its pristine state
as if nothing ever existed for it.
