Jurado - The Prayer of Anthills


Jim Jurado

I dig near the roots of Oak trees
for anthills.

An anthill always
follows the curvature of the earth.

Anthills can cure
the backache
of any psychic.

Anthills form slowly
in the distance of whispers.

I smell anthills
in the latent perfume
under lilac bushes.

I search for anthills
in my ears.

An African legend says
the bright sun
in a different anthill
every night.

I wait
for long rain,
to rot
the white peonies,
and attract
the anthills.

An anthill
will tie
our wishes
into knots.

An anthill can have different shapes:
a line forming a scent dance around a rose,
a moving parallelogram of weather patterns,
or a gyrating square for tight defense.

The optical illusion
of an anthill
will give you
a headache.

The syrup
of my cactus shadow,
with my hair sticky with needles,
sometimes drips in the grass,
leading me
to the lost City of Gold
of these anthills.

All mirages
as anthills.

Anthills can teach you
about the mirror of the senses,
where understanding
has become a myth.

For example, an anthill
tastes like the thunderstorm in a tomato.

An anthill
is like zero,
the ghost of all numbers.

I ring an anthill
like a temple bell.

I wash my face
with anthills.

From Grist On-Line #1, October, 1993. An original publication.
© copyright 1993 Jim Jurado