Stomp

My son at three crouches
on the ground, his face leaned in
close, inspecting a line of ants.
A stick clutched in his hand,
he pokes at the line, shaping it,
changing its direction, the
way he guides our dog by
stepping into her path. Then,
he squishes one with his stick–
by accident at first. Soon, he’s poking
at ant bodies with his finger,
wrinkling his face.
Slowly, carefully, Zeus calculating
where to drop his next
lightning bolt, he lifts a foot,
hovers for a moment.
In one gleeful, powerful thrust, he
stomps; a grin spreads across
his face. He feels the dinosaur
inside his chest grow and grow,
towering over our house.
He curls his big claws,
tearing out of his own skin.