MR. KAZILLY’S WORDS this week are about bugs. It’s all Heather’s fault. She brought a dead caterpillar to class. She said she found it on the way to school and brought it in because the poor little thing looked just so sad. Weird, but yeah, I kinda agree. I felt sorry for it because it never had a chance to be a butterfly.
I never feel sorry for mosquitoes, though. I try to smack them before they land on my arm. But they get real sneaky and bite me on the back of my neck, or on the part of my arm that’s hard to reach. Grown-ups tell me not to scratch, but the bites itch! I can’t help it. It’s amazing how something so tiny can bother me so bad.
Mr. Kazilly talked a lot about metamorphosis—how insects change from wormy-looking things to sometimes really cool-looking bugs. After bugs go through metamorphosis, they are called imagoes. Cool name. He said he likes to watch the sixth graders he teaches grow up to be teenagers and adults. It’s hard for me to imagine myself as a grown-up, one of those imago things. Way too complicated to even think about.
The final word he gave us this week is “entomophagy.” It means “the eating of insects.” I’d have to be really, really hungry to eat bugs. If I were starving, I’d close my eyes, imagine that the bugs were chocolate-covered walnuts, then swallow real fast. And be glad I wasn’t going to die of starvation.
I guess there really are some things worse than divorce and custody agreements. Like eating bugs for dinner.
Mr. Kazilly gave us a poem by some guy named Joyce Kilmer. What mother names her son Joyce? It’s called “Trees.” I guess Mr. K. chose it because bugs live in trees. I give up trying to figure out his motives.
by Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
I like the way he talks about trees having arms and hair and stuff. Mr. Kazilly has made us do enough poems that I’m not fooled by the tricks that poets play with words. But nobody actually mentions insects. I guess I have to figure that out myself. This is what I turned in.
Bugs
by Isabella Thornton
I think that I will never chew
A bug that’s crunchy
or maybe blue.
Bugs should buzz
or crawl
or fly
But never in my mouth . . .
I’d die!