It was a basement with its own basement, and in that basement were machines and dusty weapons, the engines of the house; where the floor gave way because of intense pressure from below, and magma boiled up through the wood-looking tiles; where to leap to safety broke my sister's foot; where the animals that weren't as smart as we were captured and admired; where we watched in horror as the ski lift lifted the men inexorably to death; it was my favorite room in the house.
Nothing is more important to the ant
whose exoskeleton has been breached
by mushroom spores that are now
controlling his nervous system
and compelling him to climb to a high leaf
only to die and release the spores
over the whole forest
than this poem about his sad plight.
Otherwise his life is meaningless.
Forage. Chew. Recognize by scent.
Abdication of the will. A huge wind
that comes and sweeps his fellows
off the grass. When he dies up there
in the treetops the mushroom grows
right out of his head and breaks open
lightly dusting the afternoon.
Everything he thought he was here
on Earth to do has been left undone.
Through the trees
the spores move on their sinister ways.
I put down the science magazine written
for elementary school kids
in which I have briefly disappeared.