Like a Caterpillar
by Theodora Goss

I would like to transform
into a strange animal —
unclassifiable, a headache
for Linnaeus and his progeny.
I would like to be
green, furred, perhaps segmented,
like a long caterpillar
with rows of tiny legs
and orange tufts for ears
that could hear
everything happening underground,
all the secret things,
the subterranean whispering
of trees, the gossip of moles
in their holes. I would have
two pairs of eyes,
four altogether, that could see
what bats see, and a small nose,
almost invisible, that could smell
winter coming.

After that, I would like to transform
into some flying thing, perhaps
with green furred wings
spotted orange, and a long tongue
so I could taste the clouds
in the dew left on purple clover.
And after that,
something skittering, like a squirrel
with orange fur and a tail
like an antenna, so I could pick up
what the stars were saying
to one another. And after that,
a sort of jellyfish, translucent,
performing its tidal ballet,
and after that . . .

(The image is a botanical illustration.)