Save the Ants!A Poem by MichelleInching down my news feed tiny brown baby butts sit in the arms of white girls experiencing a mid twenties crisis. An album labeled, Africa No Country No Name, Is layered with pictures of bloated bellies and faceless actors in a Facebook lifetime series called "Jesus Loves The Little Children" Sandwiched between memes and mental health updates. It reminds me of the time my 5 year old self laid flat. My pale tummy scratching against the cool concrete. I watched the tiny little ants run in and out of their homes. At first, I was just fascinated. I wanted to know what they knew. What could those little ant brains be thinking? I could only assume, only imagine. I rolled too far to my left trying to get a glimpse of their remarkable but unfamiliar world. I rolled back to find a dark spot pressed to my hip. I screamed and panicked unaware of the hundreds of ants that had died by my doing in my short five year life span. I had stomped their homes and families countless times before, playing basketball and drawing my name in sidewalk chalk. I had ridden in the car unaware of the tires rolling over the same hill twice in just the last week. This time was different. This time it hurt me I couldn't let my new ant friend die not after all the time and effort I put in watching them grow. I made a grass bed and gently placed the motionless ant on it. I waited and watched, but the little black speck of a creature was dead. In that moment, that last little baby ant breath, I decided to dedicate my life to saving the tiny lives that occupied my driveway. I would be the doctor the teacher the preacher the president of the ant race. I surveyed my driveway for ants in need and found none. I laid back down and watched. I saw an ant stroll past my arm. Pretending to not know what I was doing, I dropped my forearm to meet the edges of the earth conveniently nicking the leg of a friendly passerby. “OH NO” I thought, pretending to not know what I had done. Preparing the grass bed, even grabbing a cracker from the cupboard, I once again watched and waited. It squirmed and wriggled, afraid, I tried to comfort it with soothing songs and smiles, but it wasn’t long before there was no soul to sing to. I got up with a sick feeling in my gut. They were doing just fine without me. “Dinner Time” The gut feeling became a full tummy, mashed potatoes and gravy, white privilege and steamed veggies. © 2016 MichelleReviews
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1 Review Added on May 6, 2016 Last Updated on May 6, 2016 AuthorMichelleSt. Paul, MNAboutI am a 23 year old English teacher. I live in Twin Cities. I enjoy writing of all kinds. I am currently writing a novel but I also write shirt stories and poetry. It all depends on what inspires me in.. more..Writing
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