I meant no harm when I burned them

with a magnifying glass, wishing only to know

if it were true: you could channel sunlight.

Prometheus gave humans fire, and for this,

goes the story, he was tormented by an eagle.

The ants shriveled. My father was a doctor.

After he divorced my mother, I sat in the dirt

of his yard, squishing ants between glass slides,

slipping them beneath his microscope.

Families are strange creatures: whole one day,

broken the next. At my father’s desk,

I examined ant armor, pointy swords of their hairs,

too young to consider I caused them pain.

What have you learned? the elders might ask

in the afterlife. I picture everyone there:

elephant gods, the dog king. We are sitting

in a circle, on folding camp chairs like those

on summer sale at McGuckin’s Hardware.

When the ant queen turns her gaze on me,

I’ll apologize and explain how I’ve grown.

Through my father’s strong lens, I saw features

invisible to my naked eye. What, I later wondered,

could I not hear with my naked ears,

not feel with naked hands? I am certain now

everything is conscious. If you understand me,

I bet you’re the type who kisses your cat

good night. When your daughter calls you

to her room because a bee is trapped inside,

beating its head against her pane, I bet you

cover the bee with a Tupperware bowl and carry her

to the garden you keep meaning to weed,

where habaneros grow despite you. You shake the bee free on a bed of mint, because you hear and do not hear her

say she is hungry, she is tired. She is buzzing

like something gone haywire. You understand—

you resemble her in this. You could be sisters.