Sarah Key

To C.H., My Dear Departed Sweet

“Some species of fungi, for example, infiltrate the brains of ants and coax them to climb plants and clamp onto the underside of leaves. The fungi then sprout out of the ants and send spores showering onto uninfected ants below.” (Science Times, August, 19, 2014)

Forgive me, dear,

I blame my microbiome,

for sure, my foregut made me do it.

I read in the newspaper,

how those hundred trillion

bacteria and microbes

we thought were riding free

now scientists think

“maybe the microbiome

is our puppet master.”

The spoon is still smoking,

a frosty mist emanating

from my weapon of choice.

Did you have to share

your nuts with all my

girlfriends? Why did

you get me high just

to bring me low, low

enough to lick you

out of existence. Your

dark, sticky substance

stains my kitchen floor.

You left me wanting more,

my Chubby Hubby,

all 444 grams of you,

and I hope you take it all with you

those 84 grams of fat too.

*

MAYBE THE DEAD                                                                       

Lie awake at night in the cool surf

between the greyness of sharks and

the dream of teeth dropping

like petals in the pinkness of Spring.

Each night the house Witch chased me

from basement to attic,

Lion bit a big hole in my little leg,

my Dark-Mare galloped on;

I flew, pedal to the air, my gored knee rattling

like my son’s baby teeth, tic-tacs boxed

in my pocket, they would stay with me,

roll in the snow, pose for pictures

with snowmen: old boots for hands,

pine-needle mohawk, helmet of sled’s half-disc,

eyelashed twigs—let me capture

the smiles of their undead dreams.

© Sarah Key

///