Creature Comforts

— Geoff Anderson

so many things my son has
butchered not just the cherry
blossom he hands me

a curious grin on his lips another
branch he tore drips a glaze
of rain on the slick driveway

I keep meaning to seal
a poke of clover in a muddy tread
a part of me dreams of waking

to a steaming layer of tar
spread on asphalt like butter
on burnt toast which means

a part of me would entomb
the very ants I dragged my son over
to see last night as they scuttled

pearls of larva before the thunder
he had been crying and I desperate
thought he would want to watch

the earth crawl beneath his shadow
a pair of mandibles at a time both
our eyes wide as he lifted a foot

over the colony and laughed
he takes after me more than I
had hoped the way I too look

down at the world’s quiver
and imagine bruising the earth
into a harder slab of stone


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