Without God

by Dorianne Laux

 

we are ants

grown enormous.

Clumsy,

sap swollen,

stumbling

one over another

as we rush through

crumbling tunnels,

sugar in our veins,

the dead cradled

in our tender mandibles.

 

If that’s all

isn’t it enough?

The glistening larvae

no less dear?

The pinhole of light

entering

the chambered vaults

through which the scent

of our lemony sweat spirals,

no less delicate?

 

Are we not miracles?

Rivers of us pressing

forward, gathering

as we go, singing

as we ascend,

stopping to roll

down a grassy slope,

our eyes

closed, our arms

crossed over our hearts.

 

Isn’t that enough?  Isn’t that

terrifying and magnificent

enough?