Kathryn Smith
To Whomever is Managing the Crisis
The hens pluck out their feathers,
line a nest for invisible chicks.
Parasites infest. Microscopic. The sea
once carried the diatoms I sprinkle
on the ant hill. I commit this death.
Their bodies desiccate and writhe.
Creatures all. I say “kombucha”
as a mild epithet or a substitute
for Gesundheit. It takes mounds
of microscopic bodies before
they’re made visible. Even
an invisible brood needs protecting,
puffed breast and spread wings.
Like a shield. Invisible does not mean
nonexistent. My own nest
is made of paper. Chew it up
and spit it out. A cartoon
infographic of bombs.
Kombucha. Kaboom. Awash,
like the sea teeming with diatoms.
Nor does visible mean to exist.
Before they were dust. Ashes to. God
bless you or save us. God save
the ant queen. No eggs but larvae.
The hens eat sawdust. If you breathe it,
this earth will cut your lungs.
Kathryn Smith is the author of Book of Exodus (Scablands Books, 2017). Her poems have appeared in such publications as Redivider, Mid-American Review, Bellingham Review, Carve Magazine, Southern Indiana Review, and Rock & Sling. She lives is Spokane, WA, and is the recipient of a grant from the Spokane Arts Fund.
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