Leafeater
The summer came forward as did the aphids
and flea beetles, hungry for more
of what I offered—crookneck squash, tea
roses, my hands a servant of rain and larvae.
I once saw a sawfly lay her eggs on the backs
of my tomato blossoms, their minute yellow
flowers as much a part of this world as
the roses, the sawflies, my grief. The pearl
eggs turned hungry and my tomatoes never
came. I collected my empty baskets and mourned.
What I did not see was how devoted I had become
to the creep of sorrow, its holes chewed straight
through me, its pale caskets of silk. It was the decay
I praised—how resilient its mouth, its exhibit
of hunger, its blind, bearable life.
Books & Baubles 
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