BURNING ANTS

After the dilation,

the nausea,

and the fisted-grip

began pumping

its dull thrum

inside my temple,

I stared  

into the burning mirror.

You may feel a slight sting,

the voice in the dark crooned.

And that was when the ant

at the back of my brain

began to crackle and burn.

That was when I saw him:

a boy, in summer,

fumbling to focus the sun

on the head of an ant,

through a broken piece of glass.

Almost done,

the ophthalmologists chirped.

Just a few more.

But he was a big fat fibber.

Caught in the cross-hairs

of the infra-red beam,

I was the ant today,

the doctor's drone, 
and he was out to kill

the colony, to save my sight.

To keep my humors flowing.

After he finished

with his false sun and lies, he clucked,

Don’t forget to pick up your drops,

your Imitation Tears, on the way out.

Salve for the wounded.

Raw and teetering,

I stood at the reception desk

waiting for someone to notice me.

Can some one help me, please?

Who sent you? the woman in green pajamas hissed.

Who, who sent any of us…? I keened.

Now just give me my goddam tears!