On Earth
Matthew Dickman, 24 May 2012
“... My little sister walks away from the crash, the black ice, the crushed passenger side, the eighteen-wheeler that destroyed the car, and from a ditch on the side of the highway a white plastic bag floating up out of the grass where the worms are working slow and blind beneath the ants that march in their single columns of grace like soldiers before they’re shipped out, before war makes them human again and scatters them across the fields and the sands, across stretchers and bodies, across the universe of smoke and ash, makes them crouch down in what’s left of a building while a tank moves up the street towards the river where it will stop, turn its engine off, the driver looking through a window smaller than an envelope, where he will sweat and think about how beautiful Kentucky is ... ”