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. After my doctor father 

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, 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.