On summer evenings, free from the corrosive grip

of adults, we meet at our usual spot under the mulberry tree,

armed with a stick for digging and a tin mug filled with water,

and watch the ants

fight for their lives with jagged, algorithmic movements,

a sort of cold haste to outwit us, the architects of

sorrow shaped like ditches everywhere. You are

quiet, hardly breathing, face bent so low to the ground where two ants

link up as if taking counsel, I could mistake them for an eyelash. No joy is

ever pure. Now your left sleeve blows up in the warm breeze

and I try not to look. A year ago,

the sleeve would have had an arm would have

had a hand, like other children, like me. A year ago, you were not yet

a hero, like the papers said you were for jumping in

when the bear

charged between bars and snatched your little brother. They say

you didn’t have much choice but fight, and losing, trade in

your own arm. In my head, the scene is sticky

and redwashed. I should know if I asked, but I never

do. At last, more ants join the chain, their bodies a sort of living raft.

It’s always a relief,

catching the moment when they flee

and take up their old trail. It must be getting late. It’s true that

children grow up watching others struggle and, sometimes, live.