Having entered the house
in search of something
they did not find,
the chrome-armored bodies
of three fiery searcher beetles
lay lifeless on the floor,
flaring bright colors,
lode of mineral gleam,
shivering flame of
reds and blues and greens.
I wanted to post
a beetle-sized sign,
a warning to future travelers:
turn back, this is not the way.
But ignorant
of beetle hieroglyphics,
I placed them like a trophy
on a clouded glass dish
the size of a silver dollar.
A year has passed.
They have shimmered on a shelf.
And now I understand
their bodies are not
mine to hoard.
I must take them out,
lay them on soil
where coiled threads
of bacteria
will break down
the sugar shellac
of their carapace
and make the soil sing
with dissolved light.
—
Mobi Warren is a poet-naturalist who lives in Texas. She is the translator of several works by Thich Nhat Hanh, including Old Path White Clouds. Warren leads poetry walks in which direct experience of the natural world inspires writing and advocacy for all beings that share our planet home. She is the author of a chapbook, Thread and Nectar, and her essay “Cicadas Still Sing,” in included in Orion Magazine‘s anthology, The Book of Bugs.
