six days ago as I drove

six days ago as I drove

my kids and I home

from brunch at BITS cafe,

I felt something strange

happening with my back

and as I reached a hand around

between the car seat and my shirt

I felt a pronounced pain

and began to consider the possibility

that I’d been stung.

that was confirmed when I felt

something in my grasp

and, before I flung it down

to the floor of the car

at my son’s feet,

I felt it also sting

the tip of my index finger.

I pulled over to the curb

on a side street off fourth

and we all jumped out

and studied the floor of the car

as I flung open doors.

suddenly my son pointed

at something black

rising off the sidewalk,

and to my surprise he said

”it’s a flying ant!”

he and his sister and I

got back in and I drove us home,

where I immediately took some benedryl

and soon I could barely feel

where that little sudden violation

of my body had occurred.

but another kind of buzzing

wouldn’t stop now: a thought

that looped around my head for days.

we can go back and piece together

so much of the past,

whether through research at the library

or online or returning to where an incident happened

and interviewing those who were there,

and so on, ad infinitum

in a calculus that does its best

to square the circle of time.

but so much falls through the cracks,

enough really to rebuild our world

somewhere else from scratch.

it’s not just the path of that flying ant

after it bit me that I can’t track —

that phantom ellipses into insect heaven, eventually —

but also everything else it stands for:

the unaccountable, the elusive,

the unwieldy shifting pieces of life,

the awesome, fathomless ocean of fluid movement

that makes up all that we can’t control.

that hidden world doesn’t need to be discovered,

because it’s the same as our own:

there where you lay your head

is the satisfying embrace of all you’ve sought.

when you wake, the fates of out-of-sight things

will reveal themselves in everything new you encounter

like the palimpsest written on a Möbius strip.

Poems 3Jim Burlingame