there are anthills in your backyard
that I placed into existence. I gathered pieces of life from mine
and the moon
and knew you were sad
so I brought them home to you. each bug holds
crumbs atop their back
until they drip to the ground like a runny nose, meanwhile
a child
brings dead things
to the person they love
because they trust only them to bring it back to life. I do that with you –
recycling spider legs and folding moth wings
onto each other,
add twenty fly-lashes for good measure
as if anything I can find
will take the tears from your eyes. you taught me how to
caress carrot flowers
at such an angle, they can heal. my mother will drink until she dies
and I am that child holding
petals out, their extracts and oils spilling into
the last hope I'll ever have.
me and you, we communicate via ants across statelines –
today I am sending a message
that shares more like a plague than language – of sisters needing
different things the same ways. and you
tell me it can reach you
in one insect's insomniac night
if I douse the compass in primrose and my honey.