Sabyasachi Roy
MAP OF SMALL SURVIVALS
The astrologers predict collapse again.
Their charts look like tangled headphones.
Meanwhile, ants continue carrying crumbs
ten times their size
without posting motivational content about it.
At the laundromat,
a woman folds tiny dinosaur socks
with the concentration of a bomb technician.
Outside, clouds drift east
like they’ve done this a million years already.
I keep mistrusting happiness—
it arrives too quietly.
A shell on my windowsill
still smells faintly of saltwater.
Which feels, somehow,
like evidence against extinction.