Tending Hunger

by Danielle Garland

Tomato hornworms are an agricultural pest species and should not be released under any circumstances. — Carolina Biological Supply Company

Follow the trail of bruised

fruits and holed leaves. You will find his small

and inconsiderate body crawling on the under

-belly of your branches. Coax him off your

fingers, into the yellowing takeout container, where

he will want light and warmth and more

of your plants. Wonder at the way his green

and patterned skin becomes swollen ripe on the destruction

of your summer’s work. And then wonder

at the purpose of tending

to his hunger, of nurturing a life

incompatible with yours. Remove the food

when he is ready. Bury him, squirming, into something soft

and lifeless. Block out the sun and pray

for his pupating body to become as sturdy as you

wish to be. Wait a week. Then, cradle this new and dark

and armored version of him. Admire his ability to metabolize

insatiable want into purpled strength—wish that you did not

anticipate its undoing. Place him gently

in a flight cage—a cruel home

for any winged thing. Dig a paper towel

roll from the trash. In a few hot days, he will climb it as his marbled

wings uncrumple. Mist these new and narrow limbs. Gift

him your sweetest water. Gaze at his thick

elegance, how it hovers and somersaults through the air

you’ve trapped him in. Tire slowly of this

deceptive beauty. You will need to

remind yourself of the harm that comes if you offer him

the world. Place him carefully

in a bag. Zip it closed. Watch

as he struggles against this place of rest. Hold

a wake for him in the freezer. In the morning, lay

his harmless body in the backyard trash bin. Linger here,

if you can bear it. Pick a cherry

tomato from the nearest bed. Press its blood

-tinged skin against your own teeth. Hesitate

before you

swallow it all.