Breadcrumbs by Emily Chang

August heat rises up the hill like fat in broth.
This is when the ants sneak in,
tiny limbs marching, o silent band.
Survival drips through the faucet,
gets thrown in the compost bin.
A drop of hard water. Pulp still clinging onto
the skin of a sliced mango.
K starts her remedy regime:
A garlic’s bloated body blocking up
the Insect Interstate, a saucer of vinegar
souring the kitchen air.
Pesticides, when all else fails.
I watch her from the living room carpet, listen to
her ankles creak as she evicts the little freeloaders.
Blame my passivity on the dog days,
how the grease makes my mind go numb,
sliding around the cranium like butter
slicking the pan. Blame the physicality of ants,
their shape as thin as my hair, as harmless
as the dandruff that gathers within it.
Blame the new-age Buddhism pamphlet
I picked up while digging my nails into
bruised mangos at the farmers’ market,
which tells me all living things fear a death
not of their own doing – which tells me,
I’m not supposed to blame anymore,
So I’ll leave you at this: mostly
because I know what it’s like,
body crouched against cool kitchen tile,
Searching for a crumb, to be that small.

artist’s bio

Emily Chang is a writer from southern California who currently lives in France. As of late, she has been listening to a lot of shoegaze.