When I was 16 my parents took
me to an Orioles game. During
a rain delay, I smoked in secret
beneath the concrete canopy
hunched over my diary in which I
likened the men who’d scurried
across the field with a tarp in tow
to an orgy of ants. I remember this
now when I watch the surfers as
black and faceless as ants being
scattered about by waves. I want
to say I like watching because it’s
a reminder of how small we are
in a world so big or how nature
will do what it wants with us and
how, from a distance, that’s actually
sort of beautiful but I think it’s
Really about that first orgy of ants
that first time I recognized men as
replaceable and best in numbers.
Comments are closed.