Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue One

Lisa Fay Coutley

In Love, Fridays are Best Spent Watching the Discovery Channel

In the Riverine Forest of Serengeti, siafu roll their dark tide highway toward acacias and black mane lions. A sisterhood—twenty-two million strong—unified in a hunt for breath. According to myrmecologists, ants make up one third of the planet's animal weight, and these are the harvesters of flesh. They bridge into every orifice, asphyxiate and devour a frog in under an hour, polish a cow's bones within two weeks. Nothing cleans meat from a skull like siafu. When it's time, these sirens sing their pheromone song to the sausage fly. Mature enough to need, he'll stagger into the swarm of sentries who tear him wingless and bring him to the queen of trees and grasslands. He is mated once before eaten. Only the Masai understand the matriarchy of siafu. How they rid a crop-square of insects and rats in seconds flat. How their man-eating pincers double as sutures. Even after their bodies are pulled from their heads, they still hold on, closing the wound.