Patrick Avery
Salivation (Ant Salvation Draft II)

Microbial bodies swimming in a pool, burst
from my mouth, a swooning rush
of alkaline-rich liquids
slowly weaning, from the thick hits
that wetly rock the crisp, firewood
deck…to subtle drizzling drops
from my tongue.
Dusty, dry edges of impure wood, acid decayed,
are neutralized, revived—moistly pure—
on the parts and docks of mucous fjords,
slipping splats descending
with blessings of glandular rain gods,
Thor’s hammer, Odin’s eye splitting the sky.
The slow, expanding lake is mirroring this,
a sliding murder of rumbling
grey clouds—electric forks
of snake lights, behind
my pale pallored, weak face
of nauseous sweat.
The suddenly dark, blue landscape—still green
but once in sweltering sun—reveals
a fiery, wet sign of life
clamoring to escape the sludge of mud,
the stark garden of wet,
shredded dead leaves that crackle.
From a bush he climbs he rides drops
sliding down its branch-arm,
plopping down on spongy wood,
a plank of deck right next to salivation.
Straight-ahead he goes to it
and trudging along with clipped toes
he arrives; shiny little face, black eyes
appearing in the sheen,
he takes quick, light sips—
the ant transferring human energy
to dry, arthritic limbs, now ready
for crossing, his journey reflected
in enzymes.
Bruised clouds ignite with sudden, Nordic fury
flooding air with blazing ions, moisture fists,
harsh purification
for land so long in brownness, weeds snapping.
Leaves, pavement, hoods of car, and trash can
lids… the drops slap entirety,
my eyes track the vanishing fire-
red beacon carrying life juice
back to his flooded hill
of burnt brethren.