Incantation

The caterpillar tents start appearing just as the leaves burst their buds, as if someone with a white marker were doodling in every crotch of limbs. My dad goes into the hospital to have a large, non-malignant tumor removed from his lower spine, & I picture a white knot swelling with caterpillars of pain. A day after the surgery he’s taking his first steps without it, this thing that has made almost every position of repose impossible for weeks, forcing him to stand or to walk slowly for hours each day. Now it has been thoroughly cast out through the surgeon’s art, excised, exposed: bulb that burned but gave off no light. Sexless flower. Empty tent. Be gone. Be gone. Be gone.

Here in the woods where my father returns in a couple days to resume his walking — this time to heal rather than assuage — flashes of scarlet as a tanager snatches gnats & caterpillars from the not quite fully opened leaves, singing a line of his hoarse song between each mouthful of wings, each mouthful of spines.