Elizabeth Oxley
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Bio:
Elizabeth Oxley is a poet living in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies. She studied languages and literature at Franklin University Switzerland, Brown University, and Georgetown University. Her work has appeared in journals including Crosswinds, Frontier, The Poetry Review, Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac, Peregrine, and Ruminate. She was the winner of the 2019 Frontier Industry Prize for “After April Rain.” Say hello at www.ElizabethOxley.com.
The Ant Queen's Children
I meant no harm when I burned them with a magnifying glass, wishing only to knowif 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. My father was a doctor.
After he 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, I bet 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.
Prometheus gave humans fire, and for this, goes the story, he was tormented by an eagle. The ants shriveled. My father was a doctor.
After he 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, I bet 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.
