for Mariana Jiménez

The scorpion asked the frog to help him cross the river.

“Absolutely not,” said the frog. “You’ll sting me.”

“Why would I?” said the scorpion. “Then we’d both drown.”

The frog agreed and so the scorpion climbed onto the frog’s back.

Halfway across the river, the scorpion stung the frog.

“Why did you sting me when you know it means we’ll both drown?”

“I couldn’t help it,” said the scorpion. “It’s in my nature.”

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I stand before you unwilling—no, unable—to defend my actions. They are inexcusable, unbelievable, and more importantly, inevitable. Whatever judgement you have for me, be sure that it is rigorous, righteous, and cold.

They say justice is blind but I too was blind when I first came to this world. My mother carried me and a dozen others, my brothers and sisters. My first sight was the glimpse of a fight: we together watched the queen of our brood eat our father. I never pitied him. I was still, colourless, and without a carapace. It was a brutal death and in my naïveté I thought the queen would explain what she had done. Only later did I realize that women need no law. My sole crime was believing there should be one.

Perhaps I was made to be alone. Could you blame me? The music, the noise, the nightlife. I tried so hard to adapt, to learn, and I succeeded in the only way I was taught.

The principle law of nature is violence so if you are tempted to judge me make sure not to stop at words. Make sure not to slip me between bars or have me giving vacation pay to some psychologist’s babble barn. No animals will cure my curse: I am ruin. I am an ambassador for a nation of one who speaks three languages: tooth, venom, and bone. Do not dishonour me with silence. Do not disturb me with peace.

Five-and-twenty springs were enough for this stinger to see all that needed to be seen. I am no woman, no mother with a brood on her back. There is no softness beneath this carapace, no flesh and blood, no love. I am not a victim in a harsh world. I am an artist of carnage.

And I cannot change. Harm is my nature.

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Jerome Ramcharitar spends most of his days teaching English as a second language and occasionally causing more trouble as a poet. His first chapbook, The Wrong Poem and Others Like It, was nominated in the Exposine awards for best work in English Literature. A language fanatic, he has dipped his fingers into translation, editing, and the dangerous world of card games. He resides in Montreal.