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.