Slice us in Half

My friend Kevin
conducts social experiments
on the ants
invading his apartment.

He figures they can learn,
so he smashes them
with a box
of granola bars
or whatever
he happens to have handy.

Leaves the killing
fields untouched
for days
as warning
to the colony:
Death is likely,
sugar is not.

But the ants
learn
slow
like me
that cocaine summer
loving
my bisexual soulmate
fresh
out of rehab.

Gravity
gets thick
during those midnight
walks
and three a.m.
picnics—
the ground always invisible
and rising.

I visited Kevin
the other day
and saw
the corpses
on the coffee table.

The ants
are learning,
he swears.

But I’m thinking
maybe
he’s killed them all.

As we sit,
one
ant
appears
and scurries
toward a body--
inspects, lifts
and carries it
toward home
on a rescue mission
or a funeral procession.

I watch
While Kevin bisects both
with his beer can
and wonder why
they keep coming
and whether
they always will
no matter
how many
he kills.
No matter the cost.
Like me
that soulmate summer,
when midnight pulled
like gravity
toward invisible
razorblade futures
always waiting
to slice us in half.