Combat

I’m struck by the clever method of the trap,
the poison a favorite food taken to the queen
who must delight in the first ant to bring
the rare, aromatic gel. The queen, glutted
with eggs, touches the favored ant’s head
with a feeler and sends her back up the tunnel.
The little ant droops to the floor and,
when the ants behind start dragging her body
out of the way, believes it’s the queen herself
inviting her back to the chamber to share
a bit of the golden ambrosia in her jaws.

I feel a tiny red insect of guilt moving.
I’m glad for it. My queen is not dead.
My guilt is wingless and sterile. I set
the traps in the best places for a quick kill.

While the ants find the traps, my queen
asks me about metaphors. Have I
poisoned sweet food for the queens
in the chambers of another’s heart?
Am I the bait, the worker, or the poison?
I tell her the truth, and she takes my food
for the firey red larva moving in my chambers.