Of the joys of certain ruminants in spring,
crop gods and clod gods, gods of rut and swine;
of what is suckled and of suckling;
of plows and fallow knolls, deep-throated streams
and metaphors about the ministry
of bees, I cannot sing. These aren’t my themes.
The names of birds elude me. Likewise, wine
all tastes the same. I’m bad at husbandry.
I have a history of killing plants.
The only thing I’ve ever farmed is ants.
Well, mostly I just watched, suggestively,
as things went south: three boyfriends in a row
I gave ant farms. You’ve seen the classic kit:
plastic pastoral, sand, a mail-in form
to claim your army. This was not a hit
with Boyfriend 1, who left it in his dorm,