As an ant feels up her gigantic tree,
I feel up my heart.
I feel up my soul.
And my needle-legs
feel around
And my antennas rub together,
But this psychic ant
Can’t.

This psychic ant,
who knows others better than herself,
Can’t even try to understand herself.

I give good advice.
But I’d never take it.
I’d do what I want,
And not what I should.

So I’ll carry the bodies of my fallen friends
Back to the hill,
And I will pray to the tree
And hope to find myself.

Perhaps I will have to wait,
Until somebody steps on me—
Hopefully in the grass, among the flowers and my friends—
And only then, when I become a squished insect,
Will I get to see my own, raw insides.

But when I see them, will I know?
Will I know who I was?
Or is it even worth it?

So, I know ants don’t shed their skin,
But what if I have?
I could find my dead shell,
crawl back in
And know who I was
Who I am
and
What I’ve been.