Formica rufa Poem by Eeva Park

The ant,
which I drained out of a birch juice jar
didn't die
nor was it dead,
though I killed it already for the fifth time,
I pressed him to bits between the thumb and forefinger
of my right hand,
drowned him with tap water
pressed him with a spoon,
but he climbed out of the sink,
dark brown and straight antennas
moving quickly on six legs
still in that one direction
a quick thought,
to grant him amnesty
I could toss him in the yard,
let him live,
if I could recognize his gait out of all
the other ants
I could be god of the ants
But I don't.

Translated by Jayde Will