When I was a child
I’d scream as ants ran
their way across the tile
of the bathroom floor
and made their way to my feet.
I’d cry as the bees bumbled
through our neighbors garden
and the cicadas crusted
their shells onto the trees
of the schoolyard where the boys
would chase us with them.
I’ve always hated insects.
As a teenager I’d freeze in fear
seeing the orb weaver who
made a home outside
the kitchen window.
I did not sleep for days
when a centipede crawled up
from the wall at the corner
of my bed. Now, somewhat adult,
I watch a creature with too many
legs try to make its way into
my room. I should say something
merciful, poetic. It is alive; it is creation;
it wants to be warm just as much
as I do. But I cannot believe it.
And now, with as much ease
as I can muster, I bring my foot
down on the carpet and softly
whisper, no.