Violations

It is terrifying to wake to
ants in your bed. Is nothing
sacred? You want to yell at them.
You feel them everywhere.
In the touch of the sheets,
the fabric of the night,
the threads of your own hair.
Embattled, you beat them back
but cannot rest anywhere.

I remember a woman
whose bed was made of
concrete, whose pillow of grass.
She came to me with eyes that saw
no sleep: I’m hiding in the open,
she said, from a man
who touched me and didn’t ask.

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