On his way to the shed, our father steps through shrunken lettuces
infested with slugs,
past surfacing radishes, and waxy, green tomatoes.
He grips packages encased
in bubble-wrap, containing the crisp carcasses of beetles, the size
of a bent finger or a bullet.
Inside the shed he measures abdomen lengths, gauges weight,
records the oily colours of,
short circuit, blister, click, cucumber, asparagus, cucujid,
Rows and rows
of bodies are pinned to boards, their names in calligraphy
underneath.
The shed smells like an exterminator’s shop;
it’s filled with acetone, plastic gloves, waterproof pens, sticky labels.
Every few minutes our dad picks up
a magnifying glass, to examine a translucent body, to study his
treasury of beetles, his glistening creatures.
Second Place
Hart House Poetry Contest