I killed the ants out of trust
that they will never haunt my dreams
unless they were willing to cancel
or wait out on all the other nightmares
waiting in line—
when they go inside that little mound
I know the queen waits in hunger
to be fed – all my candy wrappers scraped
by their little mouths to make royal jelly;
something as sweet and potent for the her
to reproduce. I killed all the ants out of want,
so maybe I can feel like the queen
for a little while. As I impose my reign, I watch
them in their droning little march,
to know where they lived,
and watched closely, savoring
the micro image before pouring
a jar full of gas: setting them aflame
along with dead leaves. Inside
the house, my grandmother complains
why the jar used for iced tea smells
like potential fire – I tell I did
something about the mosquitoes,
an excuse blatantly in cohorts with evenings
to remember all the nightmares to remember
how they will always come –to remember
that I will must smoke the notion out
once in a while.
Dominique Santos
