Horse dead in a parking lot. Opossum dying

at the side of my bed. Spiders forming unions.

Ants making suicide pacts at the cliff

of a porcelain tub.

A camel

wretchedly choked. Raccoon caught up

in conversation, chattering away until daylight. Beetles

mountain climbing fresh sheets. Ants searching for a bounty in a jar of sugar scrub.

Seal drags me foot first to its kelp forest.

My dog asking that I only refer to him

as a little boy who loves mango.

A hummingbird visiting for brunch.

Ants lining up to die.

Buffalo in herds again.

Creatures unnamed aimed in attack.

You, in an attempt to wrap me up, reach and speak, but we never make it to touch. You, with a-----------------------------------truthful voice, cannot occupy me here. Spiders stow away

inside pistachio shells. Silverfish creep up my legs

until they are covered. Flamingos where there should not be flamingos.

Microorganisms making home. A family

of whales in a vast ocean sleeping, speaking to each other softly 

with all the time and space in their world.

An octopus camouflaged into strands of my hair. A seagull trying to eat

a sea star, choked up.

The ants have died and now I miss them:

their lines, their order, their purpose.

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Rachel Orta (she/her) is from Milwaukee, Wisconsin where she lives with her two dogs. She gravitates towards dream-like themes, often inspired by the mysteries of nature and the complexities of family.