Winter 1998 • Vol. XX No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1998 |

Ant Farm

One summer dayI took a kettle of steaming water and flooded an anthill, watched as balled black bodies floated down my brewed Nile and dried in the sand looking sugared, cinnamon-crusted. I should have baked them into cookies and become famous for indecipherable irresistible taste, a certain je ne sais quoi. Or thought to serve them poached. This annihilation was not annihilation; the ants did not suffer and were turned into sugar beads and their floating was serene. I didn't know there'd be few survivors; I expected in insects stamina a backbone obfuscates, keeping vertebrates upright and vulnerable, subject to arrogance, breakage, ravages, paralysis, the ideal immobility of food, facilitating admonishments to eat until bones are picked clean, not only piranhas eating their instinct, but families in public: Red Lobster, Bill Knapps, Kentucky Fried, countless rib joints, clean as ivory; meals conclude with skeletons. I admire teeth, the cutting of the first one long before t

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Making Dresses

By Thylias Moss

One summer dayI took a kettle of steaming water and flooded an anthill, watched as balled black bodies floated down my brewed Nile and dried in the sand looking sugared, […]

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