top of page

2 poems by Charlotte Eichler

Ant Farm


anatomical slice

through the heart

of a house

legs waving

egg-busy dark

huge porcelain babies  

carried aloft

awkward as furniture


ropes above our heads link the nest

to a tank of plants — the ants march to 

and fro along them holding green banners


we are islands off

the antway, don’t 

deviate, don’t fall

into the water, don’t

forget the burning 

kiss of family

the formic scent

of home



A line of white, unmarked cars

turns down our street.

Each contains a human

form, wrapped in cloth.

Sweet grubs,

swaddled, peaceful —

we can’t tell

if they’re leaving,

arriving, getting born

or dying. It’s all the same

to us. Our house

has no doors

or window panes

but it’s warm and full

of light — 

straw on the floor,

a fire in the grate.

We rearrange our cupboards,

tend the snowy creak of freezers.

The sirens are always

in our ears — they sound

like ice cream vans

in minor keys.


Charlotte Eichler is a poet based in West Yorkshire, UK. Her work has recently appeared in

Carcanet's New Poetries VIII, as well as magazines including The Manchester Review, PN Review and The Rialto . Her first collection, Swimming Between Islands, will be published by Carcanet in February 2023.


bottom of page