Not an ant at all, but a wasp. Wingless, scarlet

and furred. Like an animal. I walked three days

through the desert. Having crossed the border on foot, he told me

I know what it's like to have to rely on others for everything.

But I was playing cowboy. The bats were toy bats.

The shadows of a child's hands in the dusk. I desired

to be given something. To see the design

pulsing like heat off blacktop. At the horizon, a mirage –

the sky puddled, wet and intimate, on the highway. I wanted,

as I always wanted, to turn the night over in my hand

and glimpse its backside. To see the filth the face leaves

on the inside of a mask. While I slept, more insects

kissed the corners of my mouth. My blood

apparent to them, no matter how well I hid

in the yucca, whose blooms rise like pale nightsticks.

Salt on my temple. Wasps in the carcass. No honey.

Cow-killer ant. The venom causing such agony.

Someone had to be stung to know this, but I won't suggest

knowledge comes at a terrible price. The creature is shy

and sustained on nectar, rarely strikes. The softest

thing I've touched – the petals of the yucca.

And he was right, people were more giving

than I ever could've imagined. Strangers offered me,

through the gate of their lips, a glimpse

of what they'd lived. A stone, which, by the oil

of my hands, glistens and is worn smooth.