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
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