Plea from a Pill Bug

Someone stop this boy.

He lifts rocks and logs,

pulls our mothers and sisters from cool, damp homes,

stares so long he drowns our young with his drool.

Before he pokes us with his meaty fingers,

before he stumbles onto our heads,

someone tell him our names,

our love of long darknesses,

the sweetness of rotting leaves.

Tell him this is not how we should end:

squeezed shut with terror,

roasting on the bright ground

while he smiles his tricky smile.

Angela Howe-Decker