Love their mother
though she never leaves the house.

They love her
though she sends them out

to find food, get lost,
eat poison, to wage

hopeless wars far
from home, to die.

Ants know their sisters,
all ten million of them,

are pieces of themselves.
Ants are opera singers,

metal sculptors, symphony
conductors, poets. All

shiny, talented, undiscovered

Do you think I chose this?
Don't laugh,

but I once flew
on clear lace wings,

suitors swarmed to dance
attendance. Not for myself

do I lay eggs all day
in this dark interior hall.

I eat what you choose
to bring me.

Nobody asks if I'd prefer,
for a change,

Mexican or Chinese. I miss
the open air,

the scent of lilacs,
fresh-cut lawns

and chewing-gum.
I miss the antics of huge squirrels.

Everything happens
over my head.