This is About My Desire for a Lover Fully Capable of Pretending

I'm pretending to be an ant pretending
to see the reflections of all patterns
described by a crack in the sidewalk.
That spider-leg mark -- eased open
by a thickening root or swift
cold, swift hot -- that crack appears to be
the texture of sand, of rock, of
soil, of skin. Another ant comes by
and he is the pretending of my
imaginary best friend. He's looking for
his penis so he can study it as if
it were a barometer. It would be
easier for me to chart his ear, licking
cartilage, cilia, wax, and coclea
with hair-like legs. I'd make him tense
up, not relax. Now

I'm pretending to be a person
pretending to be an ant and the man
approaching is pretending to be
my lover and if we move
together in step, finding a discrete
shadow that's fondling the grass,
we can idle there discussing
the repetitions of bubbles
in a glass like the eye tearing up
and dropping on the ground. Splash, splash,
what a mark. Wet dark.
Sun burst. Now he knows
what we have in common.

Copyright Louise Robertson