sugar ants creep the formica, trailing turmeric,no less than men who creep the face of the moon,
which looks like formica. skulking the windowsill,
an assassin bug; muscular and intense but
missing one leg, he has haunted the bathroom
all winter long, courting lady bugs hiding
in the folds of curtains, which airlifted, now grace
the milk-splotched pulmonaria by the side of the door
that opens onto bluebirds and swallows diving
the newly-plowed soil, hunting for slow bugs
wading out of watery rills that flow into
the mud-filled gully in which a fallen doe lies,
her body, opened by vultures that linger like darkness,
blessing her disarray with the shelter of their wings,
shading her beautiful, quiet face as the flesh,
that her mother bore just for her, feeds the open sky...
lucy meskill
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