photo_camera by Marcus Dall Col on Unsplash
Termites chewing inside my head,
making tiny, tiny chopping noises;
some flying, swarming before they mate,
making more—more termites,
for more chewing.
My head feels heavy, frenzy-exhausted.
I can’t really talk.
I can’t make a poem
out of relentless chewing.
Could I really take those tense little teeth
and those frenetic little wings
and make music?
Is that what those eggs laid so long ago
in my brain
in my mistakes
in my regrets
in my worries
require of me?
We long for the day when swords
will be beaten into plowshares —
but all I want today
is to beat termites into
a poem, and hope to lay my
painful head on my pillow
until the termites quiet down
and forgive me,
and leave me alone,
and leave me to settle