the big anthill in the sky by Ian Smith

the big anthill in the sky

by Ian Smith

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 . art | Newt Gordon-Rein

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 until my mom called me in— a genocidal power trip curbed by peanut butter and honey on whole wheat . i have this theory now that every time i lose my keys or snap a guitar string, they’re somewhere up there (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