The needle's point split
another beetle shell
neatly along the crease,
and nimble young fingers
pressed the body down
along the silver shaft
as his greedy eyes
memorized each detail
of life's final moments.
He pressed the tortured
treasure into the anthill's
dirt, tan and soft as talcum,
where the tiny black legs
could twist in the wind
like grisly victor flags
hanging over the quiet
battlefield where hundreds
of blacked ant bodies
littered the mound that
was once their home, but
the boy's urges remained
unquenched. He imagined
bloody human corpses,
limbs draped across the soil
or shifting in the breeze,
spines severed on stakes,
and he longed to be grown,
strong enough to fulfill his fantasies.
