The Shape of a Grenade

by Joshua Lillie

There was a millipede wriggling in the oasis

between our two homes. The land slopes down

in the dirt’s depression and when it rains, it mothers

a river. The water stands through the humid days

as mosquitoes breed, then mostly dries,

except for the muddy reservoir at the deep end,

where my father in-law layered a dam of desert stones. 

When you step by a millipede too closely it spirals

into a button for defense. That’s what this one did. 

On our walk I pulled on the leash to keep the dog

from disturbing it. He’s not used to looking for millipedes

and neither am I. 

The rain was two days ago and yesterday was humid

and the reservoir dried, still damp enough

that every foot and paw left prints. There are ants

everywhere you look, day and night. Big and little ones,

black and red ones. The ones with wings that fly.

Where you don’t see ants you see hills. You see citrus rinds

my wife throws out for the birds that the ants will claim.

Dryer lint scaffolds the trees for unseen nests in production.

We walked back by the reservoir and the millipede was still there,

wound into its tail. I nudged the dog away and knelt

to look closer. It was still deep black and shiny and unreal,

like a negative reflection of the moon. I tapped it with my shoe

and it stayed motionless, but a million small ants fled away

from within it, where whatever was inside had dissolved.

That was last night and tonight I saw its body again,

in shimmering pieces in the shape of a grenade. 

BIO: Joshua Lillie is a bartender in Tucson, Arizona. He is the author of the chapbook Small Talk Symphony (Finishing Line Press, 2025) and the collection The Outside They Built (Alien Buddha Press, 2025). He was a finalist for the 2024 Jack McCarthy Book Prize Contest from Write Bloody Publishing. In his free time, he enjoys searching for lizards with his wife and cat.