by Peycho Kanev


The grass is shaking

but not because the storm outside;

it’s filled up with the red ants of

death–so pure, so alive,

and it is 2:35 in the morning

like every god-damned day is

2:35 in the morning,

and I take a peek outside

waiting for some revenge

upon my view on the world affairs;

but nothing is changed:

the red ants are running upon my

drunken arms

heading for my heart,

singing sweet songs of maidens

and children dead at birth,

and the storm outside is quiet now;

and the ants, my ants of death

are running away from me,

screaming with their little mouths:

“There is no soul inside”,

and finally I sleep with no remorse,

the perception of tomorrow lost

like a roach in garbage,

the ants are burning in my dream,

and I am happy for a while,

feeling mortal, too fragile,

so far away without moving a muscle,

sinking into the lie of

the new day



Peycho Kanev is the author of 4 poetry collections and two chapbooks. He has won several European awards for his poetry and he has been nominated for the Pushcart Award. His poems have appeared in more than 900 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Hawaii Review, Cordite Poetry Review, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, The Coachella Review, Two Thirds North, Sierra Nevada Review and many others.


This poem originally appeared in Issue 5.