LOVE AMONG THE CABBAGES
Fat green
caterpillars, chewing machines (that now will never
try on their parental
white broad bean flower wings in the genocide
of insecticide) have
reduced the cabbages (ever so like the
prisoners in The
Torture Garden buried up to their necks)
to an artful old
maid’s garden tatted in green broderie anglaise,
which is pretty
enough, but furnishes no coleslaw for the table.
Failing that, those
chrysalises split tidily like paper in the spring
and as butterflies
emerge in Sunday best bridal white powdered
outfits, hasten to
frolic and sup nectar at their dayflower wedding
insect hallelujahs
that they will no longer be forced
by their finicky
digestions to subsist on goddam cabbage.
They are brave, I
have seen four attack together
a giant orange
Monarch. But it is at their most cocky that they are most
vulnerable to the
sudden snap of a bird’s carved and polished beak.
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