Birch Wiley

The Centipede

The vibrator is in your hand
so it’s the vibrator that kills
the house centipede. The centipede
who darts out from the blankets
straight toward you, as if you’re the love
he’s waited for. He’s enormous,
shrimp-like, undulating his long,
articulated legs—before
you smear him across the white sheet,
the bulbous head of the toy.
Strip the whole bed, then, extra
detergent, heavy-duty settings,
the vibrator scrubbed with dish soap,
the coarse green back of a sponge.
Waiting for the washing machine,
your back pressed to its body-warm
door, you read a little about him:
carnivorous, he fed on pests,
silverfish and cockroaches.
He injected his prey with venom,
devoured the paralyzed flesh.
He cleaned brown-banded legs
with his forcipules—not teeth, you learn,
but strange legs at the mouth.
He started with just four pairs
of legs, molted until he reached
fifteen. He had faceted
eyes, well-developed sight—
he could tell apart similar
insects, arachnids, deployed
different hunting strategies
depending on his quarry.
He could have lived seven years
(had you not killed him) which means
he’d probably been a tenant here
longer than you. Making the bed
later, all evidence of violence
scrubbed away, you spot a companion
cowering under the windowsill,
boasting maybe half the legs
of your victim. You herd him
as best you can into the dark
behind the bookcase. It’s a little
bit of grace, you think, like when
you’re about to advise
your friend, once again, to leave
a love who is wonderful, when
he is paying attention, who
so rarely pays attention,
who makes you wonder what
he believes he is owed, why—
and again you’re about to tell
your friend just go when your lover
catches your eye across empty
air. They smile that smile
that unzips you, and you remember
how much of love is forgiveness.