If you stand outside my gate and peer between the slats, you might see me in the shrubs, gathering up the caterpillars who disguise themselves as bird-droppings, to tuck into my kimono sleeves. I will not be the kind who makes pets of butterflies. They only leave a glitter of dust on my palm that makes me sneeze, and they climb at night inside my rice-paper lanterns, quick as I can snap my fingers, explode into a curl of bitter-smelling incense. (Even Buddha would wrinkle his nose). And if take care not to trample the garden beetles, tear the spider’s glistening veil, you may come up to my window and leave me a token ----- a snail, a locust, a cockroach. I know the dragonfly’s song, the war cries of grass-crickets, and will sing them to you through a chink in the blinds. And if my favorite caterpillar should accidentally drop from my kimono sleeve and brush past your face ----- and you do not let him break open against the pebbles, but unfold your fan in time to catch his fall --- then I will be praying mantis, who wears a mask on her wings to scare off birds. I will pull away the mantel from my face, and if you are not afraid of my fierce eyebrows, my disheveled hair, my unblackened teeth that give me a white, barbaric grin, I will feed you tender leaves, nestle and stroke you in the palm of my hand until you are plump with nectar. Kawamushi, my hairy caterpillar. My honeybee. My centipede.
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