At funerals I see dark centipedes
            crawling in corners.
            Holidays bring suicides and
            the centipedes rush indoors.

            They terrify me so I try to
            count their legs, calculating
            their distance from my family tree.

            When my father asks what this poem
            means, I’ll say it means I’m sorry.

Copyright © Janaka Stucky, 2006. All Rights Reserved.