I pack up our past in twisted Goodwill bags, dump

them in the basement with broken Christmas lights.

Take stock of useless objects; fists of silverware, slack

folds of bed linen. Bookshelves grieve dusty paperbacks,

absent as our son’s milk teeth. Once you’ve moved out,

an army of ants move in, tiny bodies spill from flaking

baseboards, hoarding breakfast scraps in silent defiance.

For the sake of the children, I will not use chemicals,

attempt a lemon juice attack. With rubber gloves I am

quietly murderous, praying for a citrus victory, committed

to a clean slate. But still they come. Abandoning diplomacy

I relent and purchase traps. Follow the trail to your nest,

crouch behind hydrangeas, my shame lit blue by mocking

streetlamps. Watch you with her; this new woman, shining

like a freshly polished faucet. For the sake of the children

I will not make a scene, mouth hot tin, fingers clasp the bait.

Back home, I keep the lights on, flush out the colony,

sweeping bodies of the dead dried fast in the broom’s teeth.

A mess of blood and crumbs, I ignore it like a bolted door.