Edamame
In the video of the stages
the larval caterpillar passes through
to emerge a butterfly, the narrator
shares that the caterpillar, sated
with leaves, binds itself to a branch
with a smear of silk, hangs down,
and the chrysalis splits the caterpillar
carcass from bottom to top, hardening
to a conical shell, the color of chlorophyll.
The narrator describes the interior
of the chrysalis now as genetic soup,
his tone matter-of-fact as the caterpillar
remakes itself, goo becomes thin legs,
gossamer wings, proboscis, compound
eyes, nothing like the caterpillar, once heavy
with green and its role. I am surprised
by the narrator’s lack of wonder, as he moves
from “caterpillar” to “splitting open”
to “genetic soup” to “butterfly,” as if
he were driving to the Giant for forgotten
edamame, opening the freezer in the final
aisle for the green bag, at home the shells
boiled and split open, the beans popped out
and sprinkled over just made pasta.
Perhaps it’s the millions of years
that have gone into this moment – evolutionary
marvel made common, deep time packed
into a chrysalis of a few short days.
The bag of edamame is cold in his hand
as he backs the car out of the lot,
his thoughts on the bubbling pot
of water, transformation of the fusilli
and edamame into dinner, into something.
Abner Oakes taught middle and high school English, plays ice hockey and drinks mezcal, and has had poems published in Potomac Review, Maryland Poetry Review, The Baltimore Review, and Thimble Literary Magazine. He lives in the Washington, DC area.
See more of Abner's work in 14.1 and 14.1