Poem #10: We Are Not Aphids

Asian lady beetles are invading
our house and drop like kamikazes
from ceilings, crawl stealthily
across the hot stove, ambush us
in our beds— infiltrating our dreams.
One appears on the computer,
and like the Ouija’s planchette
suspiciously flits to the letters:
s-u-r-r-e-n-d-e-r.
Still, casualties mount, they collect
in the basins of light domes—
crunchy and dry. Between fingers,
they turn to dust. Lines of them
fill windowsills, as if euthanized
while marching single file.
The children have finally captured
one, named it Captain Casey McCutie,
and sentenced it to confinement
in a jar, with a leaf, stick, and stone
and three punched holes for air.
It circles round and round,
magnified, and attempts wildly to fly.
They observe its every move, insisting:
He’s ours now. He won’t die.