Golden Tortoise Beetle

—Charidotella sexpunctata

Wasn’t I born with a desire for more
long before I knew there was more to be had?

Would a swarm be called a treasure?

Could a wriggling handful pay what I’ve left long due?

Do they bite, these riches on the wing?

Do they infect the body with ravenous avarice?

If I grew morning glories across the fence
up to the fringe and flounce of honeysuckle,
could I coax these goldbugs home?

If they were currency, would every soul cultivate
a garden to capture, to collect, this tender?

How many might it take to reflect all the glory
of the sun, fling all that radiance back into the universe,
a signal to someone we’ll never know?

And is home a flower that trumpets with light?

How do you measure that fortune?

DAVID B. PRATHER

David B. Prather is the author of three poetry collections: We Were Birds (Main Street Rag, 2019), Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2023), and the forthcoming Bending Light with Bare Hands. He lives in Parkersburg, WV. (www.davidbprather.com)