In The Living Room

A small ant explores my palm’s universe
scurries across cracks, traces the longitude
of my life line.  Let me read yours, a soon to be
lover once said, number three in his repertoire
of seduction, and of course it worked its way
into our short story. Back then, in our twenties
we came at love full frontal, unblemished by 
the linearity of loss that lay ahead. And besides
he was beautiful, or perhaps it was my desire
to see him that way and to be seen that way
in return. It was a soft backdrop to political
awakening.  And here we are again, marching.
I cup my hand softly, reach for the screen door
release the ant to appetites of morning.

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