the big anthill in the sky by Ian Smith
art | Newt Gordon-Rein
my knees popped like firecrackers as i folded them towards my chest and tipped the shadow of my head as not to block the ink-stained texas interchange in front of me. this was how i always watched them: their antenna twitching as they crawled between valleys of driveway, greeting each other with pheromone handshakes. my calf eyes mapping their course to see them worshiping at the altar of a leaf, or camouflaged against the pungent mulch.
but somewhere along the way, my eyes turned to the rusted shotgun barrel of a hose, the kiss of a gas lighter. yet another kid playing god, waging war with the elements, wiping out entire bloodlines i have this theory now until my mom called me in— that every time i lose my keys a genocidal power trip or snap a guitar string, curbed by peanut butter they’re somewhere up there and honey on whole wheat. (a white room blanketed with insects, take-a-number tickets grasped between mandibles) waiting for their chance to exact some small karmic revenge. so now i cup spiders gingerly in tissues, let wasps wander freely on my shoes to make up for these infinite cruelties; to prove to myself that yes, i can be that stupefied kid again who can hold kindness in their hands without killing it. fh 36
