the sink is rancid.
A column of ants plunges in,
crawls out. The counter
roils. I wipe it with a damp cloth.
Spray vinegar. Sprinkle poison.
Once I said I wouldn’t damage a nest.
But there is no room. I scrub
my hands with soap again and again,
afraid to touch you with fingers of death.
Beneath the rose soap and detergent,
the rank smell of spoiled milk.
We stink feral.
I found the umbilical cord curled in your diaper
like a shriveled slug, yet still
haven't bathed you, dreading
the naked terror,
the screams
when you are exposed to raw air.
I hold you close,
skin against skin,
breathe in vernix and milk.
The salt of the sea.
An ant crawls in the crease between your eyes,
tracing your future.
I crush it, and feel another crawling
beneath my breast.
