The Sea Monkeys
by Barbara J. Orton
At first my mother balked I already had
Two overfed gerbils, a tomcat I tried to dress
In baby clothes, guppies that kissed my fingers
And ate their young: what more
dominion could a girl ask for?
I pleaded, offered pocket money,
and at last I had it: a box
with a sheaf of directions, and three packets -
eggs, food, and salt broth.
As soon as they hatched, I knew
I’d been had. These were brine shrimp,
the kind that came with my microscope kit:
a quarter inch long, white,
brainless, spineless. All they did was twitch.
The next day I fed them to the guppies.
For years, I made do with dolls
and tractable playmates. It’s just as well.
I don’t like to think what would have happened
If, at that age, I’d had my heart’s desire:
a colony of tiny human slaves.
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