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Invasive
Bradley Samore

Millipedes dot the basement floor,
coiled carcasses excpet one
crawling in under the door.
I open their sepulcher to the summer

morning and, instead of a doormat,
dead leaves are up to my shins.
I lift a handful and find the diplopods
milling about their boggish habitat.

Against the rasp of the broom, each curls
in on itself the way I used to when OCD
would circle me then pounce. I’d hyper-
ventilate in, in, inhalation only,

exhalation held hostage, Obsession
muttering “What if” into the blade
of a knife, Compulsion demanding
I exonerate myself from a hit-and-run

I never committed. I’d take the stand:
”That bump was probably just a crack
in the road.” But Obsession would press
the knife to my neck:

”What if you ran over a child?”
Hours in the mire I’d spiral, stuck.
Where will the millipedes go? No
nearby rotting tree or leaf-muck.

I hurl them into the cloudless sky—
their exoskeletons aglitter
in the sun, leaf-litter confetti
shivering down after.

—
Bradley Samore has worked as an editor, writing consultant, English teacher, creative writing teacher, basketball coach, and family support facilitator. His writing has appeared in The Florida Review, Carve, The Dewdrop, and other publications. He was named a Joint Winner of the Creative Writing Ink Poetry Prize.

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