A Little Sign
When I was little
we ate a meal
at my great-grandmother’s farm.
She prepared it like she had
for over 80 years. Corn
bread. Bacon. Fried chicken.
Green beans. Lines of black ants
draped over everything
and led across the table
down the legs
across the floor.
She was what others
would call blind.
But they said stubborn.
My parents made a little sign
and we sat there
while she ate her ants.
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