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Take the boll weevil, waking far south of us

at the seams of Carolina cotton lands:

she waits the weather out, numb

under leaf duff and weeds.

A fierce, dull bug.

Crawl slow when you want to force a home.

Suckle the nearest teat of sap rising.

Worry a snarled tangle of dreams,

licked tight with sugar and spit. Make it

orbed, blunt, and close to red clay: a knit of trouble

that calls to you. Be selfish.

Stay. Feed. Between the pointed bracts,

sneak in your own pearled seeds.

Watch those weevil babies. Mamas

clear the cauls and husks. Larval crescents

curl and feed -- a blight, but free.

Take this boll moon tonight--

see it: threads set to burst

with your lunar weevil light.