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Millipedes

I have sinned.

When I was tending my bean sprout, changing the soil

as a mother changes her baby's clothes

her habitat surprised me.

Two millipedes fell out—

tumbled, unhurt but surely shaken,

with wet little taps

on the paper plate beneath.

What could I do? I panicked.

I'd forgone cleanliness long enough—

for the bean sprout, no less—

and now there were two millipedes in my house,

all the little sticks in their wormy bodies,

antennae and legs, dozens of them,

wriggling in slow, stunned curiosity.

I could bear a lot of things.

I had borne a lot of things, for her, the bean sprout.

I am black-thumbed, gangrene-thumbed as my mother calls it,

you must know, you must have received

every plant I ever killed.

But I braved the chance to care for something,

braved the likelihood of death and the certainty of dirt,

kept her alive

long enough

for both of us to sprout.

And the one thing I cannot brave, it seems,

is an insect's little hand

caressing mine.

The plant went to my mother

and the plate went into the trash

and the millipedes went with it.

I can only hope they survived.

They are small enough,

just enough, that a compactor might have spared them.

What have I done?

I thought it even as I'd tossed them.

What have I done?

How can I care so tenderly for one creature,

fret so feverishly over its life

that I damn near choke it out,

and not give a passing thought to another?

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