As a boy

I used to play with ants

Not the usual

Magnifying glass cruelty

Although I see now

How cruel I was

Misguided

 

I would take the ants

Carefully

In my fingers

The tiny bronzed Adonis

Submitted to my will

 

In my garden

We had a flaccid cheap washing line

The green plastic kind

Befitting of poverty

 

I would take the ant

Place it on the washing line

Take aim

And fire it away

Far away from me

And my life

 

escape while you can

 

The ant would set sail

Aloft and alive

Pastures new

 

In my mind I would envisage a transformation

From tiny ant to beautiful butterfly

Wings sprouted mid-air

Colours and confidence

No longer a mere drone

 

When I sat in the hospital years later

Holding my grandmothers hand

As she wheezed her last accordion breaths

A sack of yellowing cancerous bones

I thought of the ants

And the butterflies

Free at last.