now two years like a magic trick time fucked up half way through speak & the air will hold your voice as it holds its own vanishing maybe you are the true soldier ant hoarder of everything so massive it could crush you into a twitching comma Sara your name sharpens daily against the marble of your mother’s teeth there are sparks in every calling & called we press our faces to the womb till it opens into language so clear we’re jokes on our way to cracking up & maybe you’re right little ant queen with your shoes the shade of dirty paper white desert your pink & blue pens untouched in their wrappers after all who can stare at so many ruins & call it reading this family of ants fossilized on the page unwritten of course you slam the book shut look out