The Infestation

Kathryn Hoerth

March 7, 2021

January 6, 2021

It’s like the time I tried to make believe

that termites weren’t a problem in my yard.

It started with a couple bugs devouring

a rotting stump. I figured, what’s the harm?

A couple termites doing what they do!

So much trouble to remove it, anyway,

like pulling truth out of a liar’s mouth. 

Just let them eat in darkness, far away

from me. But termites spread. And soon, unseen,

they started feasting on the wooden fence.

I said I didn’t know, but there were signs:

Crumbling bits of wood, a trail of dirt

that marked their spread, a mound arisen

from the ground. But in my living room,

I could forget about it and convince

myself it wasn’t really happening—

that is, until those alabaster lies,

I mean those termites, went alate and swarmed

in the middle of the afternoon,

flying in the sunlight now, to breach

the sanctum of my home, to burrow deep

into the heartwood and consume the beams.

Now they were in the living room, the kitchen,

in the attic munching on the rafters, 

in my bedroom, spreading like a virus,

chewing hollow everything that’s hallowed. 

Oh please, I begged to the exterminator,

tell me you can stop this infestation.

Tell me that there’s hope for this old house.

Tell me you can purge these lies, I mean, 

the flies from the foundation of our country.

He smiled as if to save me from the truth:

Ma’am, if only you had called me sooner... 

Katherine Hoerth is the author of four poetry collections, including Goddess Wears Cowboy Boots, which won the Helen C. Smith Prize. She is an Assistant Professor of English at Lamar University and Editor-in-Chief of Lamar University Literary Press. Her next poetry collection, Borderland Mujeres, will be released by SFAU Press.