In the brief, beeless January sunlight
I climb, bareheaded, through the trees
to find a nest of caterpillars, fuzzy and striped
that I hide in my kimono sleeves.
My mother wails in the darkened house
because I won't shave my eyebrows
or blacken my teeth, am not anxious
about the sun. My father shakes his head, and sighs.
Other girls dance with the bu*terflies
who flutter through the gardens, brilliant,
but they fear the silkworms' writhing,
who weave their clothing, silent.
In the sea a red dragon dances. No one sees
but me and my tiny allies.
I know each summer my feet grow
longer and more brown
as I watch the pupae harden,
split and glisten—
as I, too, wait to be wrapped, stilled,
in layers of silk.