French fry grave yards 
and learning to move like a colony of ants.

It was never my intention to meet
by the french fry tray-- step over
each others legs in a hunger-jaw
mess where all I could see was
us drones who drop their names
only to the queen-- was it ketchup
or blood where I lost you under
the snapped tombstones of steak fries
baked again in chlorine sun? Say your name
to me but only so I know that all these
six-sets of legs aren't just my own.
No one will sigh and tell you the truth
about how love and ants are all the same--
they tell you love is baked in the corners 
of a box-brownies or hand fed fondue diners--
I like to think maybe we love like monkey bread
you and I-- but-- even then you've left the sugar 
on your fingers-- on the counter-- somewhere
in your hair that dusts it on the pillow at night
-- and there's always the ants--
You can't hide sugar or tombstones from them. 
They will walk for the corners of brownies--
cruxes of backwards knees-- 
You used sugar diamonds and your legs to say 'I love you'
You knew my six black thighes and I knew yours
and we traced the walkways mute feet calliope
over each other-- sugar foot and fierce and 
confused-- bit my neck with your mandibles 
only to find out I was just another asteroid 
of monkey bread we dropped when we were kissing.
We can march thin if you don't think
we should walk two by two-- get pressed under
thumbs and turn into ketchup or blood
to dip each other into-- there is sugar even
in blood and they smell it already before I kiss you
Love is like ants and the French fry spills we
keep meeting by-- marching in graveyards of
sugar and yesterday grease-- wipe
your mute hands on my jeans and we
don't have to kiss-- we don't have
to walk over each other tonight--
just bake brownies with me and we can
each eat a corner-- leave the rest for the 
ants who will find us anyway.