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The Means After the month’s best lovemaking means I wake up to ants trailing all over the house I know it’s spring means I drink one with my first glass of water at the sink, means it buzzes on my tongue then stops. Shocked and shuddering, I pull it out, flick it still faintly wiggling down the garbage disposal, grind it dryly up, then take out a whole troop with a slosh of jug water, means—God am I writing poems about killing ants now? Well, means my tongue’s going to buzz all day, first there where the ant struggled, then multiplying insanely over my tongue’s mythical quarters, you know: sweet, bitter, sour, then, gaggingly, at throat’s back, salty. Means still at the sink, I menstruate suddenly and urgently, which explains the morning’s woozy ache. Means later, kill an ant pit-patting up my kitchen door. I spared it on its way down, but should it be allowed to press its luck if I’m not?  ...

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