pill bug

i learned early how to turn my body
into a moon. how to bring my skeleton
to the surface until it turned exo. in the kitchen 
we talk about fear. the sun has
thousands of legs. i remember how
when startled, my father used to tease me
about how i always curled into myself
on the floor. a little pill bug. easy to swallow
but also easy to disappear. to slip into
a damp corner where i could check for wounds.
you say, "by the time you decide to leave
it will be too late." i am not a runaway 
kind of insect. instead, i brace myself.
i have learned to endure most kinds 
of horror. thumb prints leaving labyrinths 
on my flesh. the sound of glass breaking
in the sky. it has rained for days 
& i find hundreds of pill bugs. they roam across 
the side of house where the wood is probably
rotting & soon we will be soaked through
to the guts. i do not ask to join them.
instead, i play them a slide show
of the planets. they have never seen
anything but the sun & the moon.
they curl up to imitate mars & neptune. 
you sound exasperated with me when you beg
for us to look for places we can escape.
my reactions are blood-deep. this is my body
& i do not know how to leave it.