Resurrected
Ants craft a labyrinth in sand beneath the patio,
as safe haven for their eggs. Tunnel-visioned,
they remain undeterred when pecking sparrows
deplete their number, resuming work,
no respite for lament;
our group of friends, clothed in shadows, black
Godlike in power, Dad would pour boiling water
into their inconvenient nests, a celestial fist
from nowhere, unwilling to negotiate;
our car driven by poor Eddie, smashed sideways
by the truck, all spinning
I’d watch a tide of shriveled ants wash into grass,
while underground, more perished with their young;
we draw rude pictures on each others’ plaster casts,
find small relief in tearful stories, think back
Always, after a pause, survivors from the nest
would resurrect stunned limbs from stone entombment,
circle, as puzzled robots, across steaming slabs,
knowing nothing else but to dig and build, swarm together.
we meet, dance close, each raise a half-full glass, seek light
• • •
Emma-Jane Peterson writes prose and poetry for magazines in the UK and the US, including BoomerLitMag, The Ekphrastic Review and Metphrastics, among others. She is the co-author of a book of children’s Bible stories (Parragon).