On Caterpillars

(Maria Sibylla Merian, 1703)

I paint butterflies I killmyself, stilling them with a darning needleheated in flame. Beetles are luminous. But caterpillars,

they are like unexploded fireworks, like propheciesthe Sibyl scratched on palm leavesand left in front of the cave.

I always pick them up. I feed themon plum leaves, on nettles. They do not even knowthemselves what they will become. When I was

in Suriname, at night, the fireflieswoke me with a high, weird soundlike wind in strings. My breath came short

with surprise; I could still smell pineapplein the room. I had no husband,though he lived, and the caterpillars

I took from the wild treeswere more interesting than husbands.When they hid themselves and changed

neither the slaves nor the Indians revealedwhat they knew would unfold, the hand’s-breadth wingsand startling green. Pineapples taste

of every fruit at once, and ache on the tongue.