The Ants, a poem

The Ants

The ants have chosen our fingernail brush,

the wooden handle shading the worn

bristles – a dandelion leaf cooling blades

of grass.

I wish they hadn’t chosen us.

First, I tried running vaseline

along the crevice between the

wall and the window facing.

The ants were confused, but

undeterred. They spent days

finding the weakness in my

petroleum wall.

Then I took to smooshing them

into the bowl of the sink, which

made my stomach turn.

Mary Beth, our neighbor, says she read

that ants are thirsty this time of year.

Crushing them into the porcelain,

whooshing them down

the drain, made me feel a potentate.

The old ceramic sink, my fiefdom.

So, I stopped,

curious to see what would happen,

how many of them would come.

Would we be overrun?

Once a few scouts determined

I had retreated, they scurried

into the crevice to alert their

compatriots. And in an orderly line

the

ants

made

their

way

along

the

wall

down the cool backsplash

to their home under the fingernail

brush, which, I admit, was mainly

ceremonial before the ants arrived.

Now, I take care when I wash my hands

not to splash too much water. I feel sorry

when they about face and start climbing

back to the crevice, nervous at my shadow.

After all, I have room for the ants, and the

fingernail brush looks suddenly useful

with these settlers raising committees

among the bristles.

– Jeni Hankins, April 18, 2016

Written while waiting for a checkup at the doctor’s office.

The ants were out to lunch when I got home, so I couldn’t take their photo.