Morning Massacre

MORNING MASSACRE

As if they were all the words

for the poem I couldn't find,

they clustered there—fifteen or so—

like black-pepper specks before the dish soap

drop, like so many thoraxed cows 

around a hay bale, or the crowd

of students gyrating around Ms. Beth 

to see the dish soap experiment. 

Ants are easier to kill than cows

and people are harder to kill than cows, 

but this morning I was touched 

by the common thread of breath

so touched them instead with the tip 

of my pencil to gently disrupt

the gathering. They scattered, revealing.

the mangled body of a baby centipede. 

I killed them then—fifteen or so—

in anger and in the name of a poem

I imagined, which is the reason

we kill so many things.