A Posthumous Apology to E.O. Wilson


Squish-soled executioner in canvas sneakers
I stomped ants on the sidewalk near our doorway

black ones or auburn, legs thin as hair
rice-grain bodies hefting crumbs home

through sandy holes barely visible
in the dark cracks scribed in fresh concrete

where I squatted during playtime for a bit
squinting like the one-eyed myrmecologist

Wilson—felled this week at 92, when the other shoe
(a constant shadow until then) decisively dropped

~ Debra David ~