Ellen Pigott Centipede
Each time he malts I prise up the dead skin and bloodied Exoskeleton and sew it in patchwork , Sleep under quilts hand-stitched With eyelashes I find on his pillow . I will never flinch at all of his legs , At the hairs stuck to the shower wall . I carry raw honey and formaldehyde In my best going-out bag these days , To keep his shell shiny , to keep Each lovely corner he peels and sheds . I side-step , scuttle , live on my tiptoes . How easily I could slip and crush him . And when he smiles so widely that he splits In half , unzips his flesh and crawls out clean , For half a second , he is more than one inch tall . In those moments , I like him so much That every chitin membrane bursts open , And purity stains the palm of my hand .
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