In the Rec Field at Camp Nazareth

Me, on my stomach in the long grass,
and you on my back, the seat

of triumph, my legs bent in defeat
over your shoulders. My cheek

to the ground, I’ve got an ant’s eye
view of ants. You’ve pinned me

with the Walls of Jericho, a submission
move and I submit. I submit

to mid-August, to the grass brown
and going on forever, one long blade

that bisects my eye. On one side
of my vision, the ants scurry

from their hole, spiraling out
over the pockmarked dirt

as they escape, their patent leather
thoraxes shining in the same sun

that shines on me, makes me squint
my skyward eye and arch my back and still

my lungs as I curse your steady
breath, your strong hands, and curl

my own fingers into the dead
grass, startling again the ants,

who also will not yield, already
rebuilding the home

we’ve destroyed. They carry
only what they need: some rocks,

a crumb of bread, the eggs that,
cloud-like, line their legs, even

the bodies of their dead, which
they bury in the sandy earth,

grain by grain, circling madly
until no shine is seen.