the ants never eat the strawberry
I keep for them but gather
around it in a ritual
older than mouths or strawberries -
maybe - they know
there are more and I am kind
in opening fridge-doors -
it is a god red much spread
a maybe-mother maybe - mothers
are always bigger than I think
and redder -
I should've looked through a lens
from a distance, tickling the angles,
rather than putting a mirror to her face
and being still -
maybe their favorite color is blue
like me unlike her
& they refuse to digest the red
their bodies just not in the mind.
~Ajay
27/8/2019
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
