Fondling stashed firecrackers, boys root around
in the dirt for any live thing to ride
in the green plastic Army Jeep: rolly
poly bugs, woolly worms, generic black
beetles. All get vroomed down the path with thrills
of testosterone, and I cover ears
against the blast, a roadside IED
of Black Cats, passengers surprised by flash
and bang. A satisfying crunch of beetle’s
cracked carapace, but brothers like woolly
worms best for this game, their yellow and green
guts splattering such satisfying stains.
These caterpillars will never wear black
and white dotted wings of great leopard moths,
won’t open like feathery kites to dry
under a Texas sun. But I don’t grieve
what they won’t become. No, I miss the way,
just hours before, we’d let them tickle
up and back the length of our arms, gentle
friends I’ve now betrayed, not quite knowing how.
