in fifth grade i raised tadpoles for a science project, making a laboratory of my parents’ kitchen. 

for months i’d hover over them like a god, 

marking signs of growth in a zebra print robe 

turned preteen lab coat. each day i’d wet another 

strip of plastic and pray for the right color, 

a better number. one time i found a tadpole 

with its pickled belly to the sky, her body 

a buoyant charcuterie for the others’ delight. i told 

my dad about my discovery and he shook his head, called her several shades of weak, said 

not all of them will live to be frogs. i felt the blood behind my cheeks burn with acid, sharp enough to 

kill them all. they all deserve to be frogs, i thought 

as i watched the pulpy corpse orbit the bowl 

of our toilet. she returned a few days later as a 

data point on my poster. at the science fair, someone asked what killed her. i blamed her organs, 

the numbers, the science. all of which was false. 

the scientist, i thought, it’s always the scientist.