I.
the ants have found fresh kill.
they march mechanically in and
out of their holes they have
tunneled through the earth.

i wonder how they do this i
wonder if one of their six legs
they use as tiny hands to gently
move each grain of dirt, smaller than
a pebble, smaller than a crumb
i wonder
if they think of cells and
how they orchestrate these
tiny grains with their tiny hands
into their home,
into nothing

II.
she was buried on a school day.
it was cold and it rained and i wore
my tights with that green dress
my mother would make me wear to church.

i walked under the tin rooves to
the resounding thundering of my thoughts,
like a million tiny ant feet
skittering and pattering and
running
through my mind until i
wanted to scream like lightning
until i wanted to run to run to run
to run
to
run

III.
her skin was not black. it was
the color of cold coffee my mother
drank in the mornings after she fixed
my breakfast after she fixed my hair after
she fixed my tears when she told me
ashley was gone

i looked for her on the bus
but her seat was empty and cold and
the color of coffee my mother
drank

IV.

the rain continued to fall
as we stood under the eaves
as she lay surrounded by white

ashley was not white,
i wanted to scream
she was my best friend
and the dress she wore
was not her dress,
the doll she clutched
was not her doll,
her fingers were too stiff
and her eyes
oh god her eyes
they buried her without her eyes


V.
somewhere in Texas there is a grave
in pink granite and the ants
march tirelessly, tunneling,
ever tunneling
through the earth like great roots
spreading around a casket,
cradling a seven year old's
petite, white
bones

12/01/2010

Author's Note: Years later I would finally realize it was her doll that had no eyes.

Posted on 12/01/2010
Copyright © 2024 Jasmine Sword-Mann