Poetry Sunday: I Refuse to Report Bugs to Their Creator by Brayan Salinas

 I maintain that you can tell a lot about a person by their reaction to six- and eight-legged creatures. There are those who reflexively smash them without thinking and without regret. And then there are people like my daughters and me who carefully gather them up and release them. I do admit that I draw the line at cockroaches and fire ants, however. There are limits to my benevolence!  

I Refuse to Report Bugs to Their Creator

by Brayan Salinas

During roll call

a black beetle

wanders to the sink,

near my toothbrush,

and I say,

“Poor thing,

I better let you go.”

                                 My father says,

                                 “You better smash that thing

                                 before it multiplies.”

                                 I think he says the

                                 same about me.

I lie awake at night

and think

about crunchy leaves

crushed in the autumn.

                                 My mother sees

                                 six red ants

                                 running around

                                 the loaf of bread

                                 anticipating their breakfast.

                                 She says to me,

                                 “Get those things off

                                 the table.”

My sister panics

at the sight of a spider.

She runs to the kitchen

and screams bloody murder.

I remind her,

“We don’t find

scary things

scary anymore.”

                                 My mother flicks

                                 the grasshopper off  her book.

                                 She asks how I am doing.

                                 I lie to her

                                 and say,

                                 “I’m doing quite all right,

                                 I smashed a bug

                                 with my shoe.

                                 We all do

                                 what we don’t want to do.”

I see a cockroach

on the ground.

“Gregor,” I whisper,

“you better run fast.”

He says to me,

“I only need to run faster

than you.”