light wanes on blue picnic days
the ants we call our own (a mound sacrifice
                                          I sacrificed…)

I know I could never be a father
            there is too much darkness in me
            you ask me to explain

                butterflies pound against
                the insides of my cheek
                and grind against my teeth

                                                it would be so easy
                                                to field disturbances
                                                            I don’t want

                                               any part of that
                                               the red clamps
                                               tight inside my guts

(originally published in Avalon Literary Review, Fall 2021)