August 24, 2021

the invaders

It’s that time of year when the ants come out. I lift the top of a sugar bowl and find
a half dozen, woozy among the crystals. Nearby, a half of a peach, left generously
unpitted on a cutting board, has fallen by mid-morning to the squadron veining
its interior. These days, it’s not hard to feel fearful of encroachment, even the one
advancing, predictably, in the garden—tomatoes sagging under their final harvest,
the nasturtiums limply giving up the ghost. My shoulder is whimpering, too,
some mysterious ache barging between bicep and blade. Elsewhere, headlines like knives
on a whetstone, and daily our courage recedes, carved to the bone. What is left feels less
than what we started with. And yet, the heart and its unyielding tenderness.