North Grove Street, Lincolnton, NC

by Keith Walker

Two doors down
in the neighbor’s
vegetable garden
tilled into the back yard –
the new houses shouldered
old fields gone fallow
and chopped into lots –

a poison-green caterpillar
camouflaged on a fresh
corn stalk caught my eye
with its undulations
and the row of black eyes
wide and lifeless as a shark’s
painted along the segments
of its sides, and the needle
sharp horns.

I lured it onto a leafy twig
and dropped it into a quart jar
with holes nailed in the lid
where lightning bugs
bled out their light.

I misread the head and tail–
horns trailed behind,
the face blunt and faceless–
a mouth ringed
with tiny claws.

I meant to take it to school.
It hadn’t survived the night
but had spent itself
gnawing through my dreams–
through the sky-blue walls
of my little room
and the sailboat curtains
on soft white ropes–
leaving holes in my world
letting in a new dark.