Boy with Katydid, The Philippines, 1968

by

Mullen Andrews

Somehow we managed to grab the grasshoppers —

Bright green, as long as a boy’s hand,

And thick like a man’s finger.

We snatched them off the pavement,

Pinched at the tapered end,

Legs and wings caught in a vise.

Grasshoppers eat leaves from the outside in,

The mandibles are vertical and strong.

If you catch one and insert an edge in the mouth,

The jaws close and don’t let go.

I see myself then,

Standing in the immense light

Of the high July sun,

An admonishing breeze wagging

The loose tail of my untucked shirt,

A grasshopper’s head, attached like an odd, green tag,

Detached from its body by a quick pull,

Stomach and gizzard trailing behind.

And what of the grasshoppers,

Startling in movement and build,

Machine-like, a sculpture of precision and intelligence,

Bold, bright shades of green, as bold as the leaves they consume,

As bold as the forest, as bold as the tropics,

Like muscular, uniformed guards of the wild?

Unlike the boy, they are still here,

Intact, in multitudes, indifferent.