Black Ants
       

Unable to sleep,
I imagine a blob
of ants, erupting
from a faucet.

If they puddle,
that will mean sleep.

But if each ant
descends on a crumb,
steals what it can
and lumbers robotically off,
which they do, branching in veins
across the tile floor,
then I'm left
listening to the sound
of my two sisters
downstairs
in the summer kitchen
where they're making
my mother laugh
without me
agam,
carrying their prize
over invisible trails.

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Copyright © 2016 Fay Dillof All rights reserved
from New Ohio Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission