What Doesn’t Kill You

by Rebecca Gayle Howell

I miss Slade most, but more I miss

thinking Little was as good as any,

that a body could mean what he says.

Everyone: a hall of glass, shattered,

watch your step, or—reflective,

but of what who knows, look in it

like a pool, remember those? I can’t

care—take the fire ant, take the kerosene,

light to match. Even the ant attacks.

Every day a queen eggs thousands,

new resin bodies twisting

out of the underground, lined up

with the rest of us, looking for work.

I don’t know what I’m looking for.

Love and happiness. Make you do right,

love’ll make you do wrong. How I used

to sing that song.