On the Midsummer Death of an Ant
Her slender pale buttery dress is dark with mourning at her neck
and the small of her back is just the right height for his hand
wiping his forehead and grinning with perfect teeth.
The icy mint tea refracts a rainbow on the sun porch wall
hangs the dried flower she wore in her hair
is strung with sweat and held up with bobby pins.
The graceful little chair curves prettily
she tilts her head to kiss him and sits down
beneath the left-hand leg, you quietly expire.
Your glistening black shell shaped just so
the crunch is barely audible against the floor
is bubbled with new white paint.
A single sigh of garnet blood slips out
in the backyard the flies’ wings glint iridescent
surface tension on the smooth dark drop.
Their words twine quietly in their soft hands
touch gently at the tips and feel the other’s eyes
so painted gold and green, they will not see
their threshold marked for age and dirt
I would like to address
the way my skin heals.
Smoothly, even gracefully.
There is frequently no mark
the next afternoon, and this is not in line
with my memory:
though amorphous, it is not fleeting.
To whom it may concern:
It is unfair to deny
the sedimentary process of return
to a normal range of motion.
(Moss is) Fractal Forests
I have been out in the rain
saying goodbye to Ava:
cool blush and leaves bow under droplets.
It is one thing
to be a signpost of myself,
to weather wind that curls the trees like so much silk.
Another to unfurl in the honeysuckle dusk,
the perfume of our four lips diffuse
among damp moss.
Age 15, Grade 10
Stuyvesant High School