A Season of Caterpillars Laura Villareal

Rooted By Belinda Subraman Brambles By Belinda Subraman

A Season of Caterpillars

Laura Villareal

begins with one growing fat on my cilantro, his peapod body lethargic as the clouds that spring which never seemed to stop carrying burdens of rain.

it was the spring you were in the woods far away. you had wild turkeys & raptor hawks, i had stillborn blooms on my tomatillos. skull headed snapdragons humming for a visitation. not even the yellow-bellied finch would perch long enough to see caterpillars & their dewdrop eggs harmonizing under the leaves’ paunch.

the first birth is the hardest, the second i looked away confetti

holes in my pepper plant. what else has been taken from me when I wasn’t looking? life is filled with innocuous dangers, but girlhood should come with a survival manual.

it was the spring a man broke into women’s apartments once a week with a handgun in glaring daylight. you can fill in the rest— we all know this story. it isn’t mine to tell, but the world continues & i can’t imagine how everything flourishes as if orchestrated. i want everything to stop growing gorgeous at least for a moment.

the second birth takes time & happens most often after a merciless spring. living alone means i check all the locks twice, carry a butterfly knife hidden in my pocket, weapons of opportunity ready. i feel safer

when you’re home. i sleep more soundly. i have trouble admitting that i’m still afraid.

so the hall light stays on in case someone arrives & it isn’t you. i won’t be as kind as i was to the caterpillar—it isn’t a season for mercy.