Ant Origami

[snailrind]

I can't write this poem about you.
I can't write it about you,
in case you die.
I can't give you a name,
in case I wake to find ant origami
feigning life at the stirring of my breath.

I can't call you Betty.
A name could make me love you,
and what then?
What if I loved you, Betty,
and you died?

I couldn't sleep for thinking of you, Betty.
I thought of how, in the afternoon,
you crooked yourself around your eggs
and lay still. You drooped.
I thought of you waiting in the dark
where I had trapped you,
where you have your home
with all your daughters ready to be born,
you knowing only that you're alone.

Before the dawn, I peeked
beneath your shield on the mantelpiece.
You hadn't moved.
I am sorry I woke you.
I tipped your tube for you to drink.
You gripped your eggs bravely-- stood your ground,
though not a thousand of you could have brought me down.

Tiny Queen Betty,
if I loved you--
Betty, if I had,
my heart would have swollen,
if I already thought,
Betty, I love you.