|
These are memories of insects. Only insects—not of me, and Not of him. That the clicking of machine guns Reminded me of cicadas outside My bedroom window, that was strange, but War is strange. Now, the cicadas Remind me of machine guns as I lie Cocooned in my sweat, unable to move. I thought of insects, and I let The instinct have my body. I thought Only of everything—not of me, and Not of him. In my backyard, I watch the industry of ants. And I wonder, are they following orders? Or following each other. Now I tread on ants, and I know Their bodies are the flakes of skin A colony must shed. I dreamt of insects. But I woke housed in my body, Clothed in someone else's blood. |