The insult was not small
a public clash of antennae,
a shove away from the feast,
a pheromone broadcast
that she was unworthy
of reign,
of respect,
of being queen.

It burned hotter
than sunlight on stone.

Off to war, she abandons her throne,
scrapes off her royalty,
lets the workers’ scent
disguise her skin.

Now she looks ordinary.
Disposable.
Perfect.

Through tunnels that twist
like old grudges,
she crawls unseen
into the rival’s nest.

There sits
the offender queen,
heavy with eggs and certainty,
surrounded by daughters
who worship her every breath.

The intruder climbs close
and arches her body
a perfect shot.

A spray of formic acid
worse than poison,
a thief of scent
the queen’s perfume is stolen
in a burning second.

To ants, smell is truth.
Smell is family.
Smell is crown.

And now,
her own daughters
cannot smell
their mother in her.

They smell only
an invader.

Confusion erupts
mandibles flash,
loyalty turns savage.
They bite.
They tear.
They silence their queen.

The victorious intruder
watches the ruin
she has orchestrated.

No trumpets,
no triumph
just a colony bowing
to the scent
of a new ruler.

Vengeance,
perfectly executed,
wears the crown.