Aphids - poetry

A Lecture on Aphids

She plucks my sleeve.

"Young man," she says, "you need to spray.

You have aphids on your roses."

In a dark serge coat and a pill box hat

by god it's my third grade Sunday school teacher,

shrunken but still stern, the town's

most successful corporate attorney's mother.

She doesn't remember me. I holster

my secateurs, smile publicly,

and reply, "Ma'am,

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did you know a female aphid is born

carrying fertile eggs? Come look.

There may be five or six generations

cheek by jowl on this "Peace" bud.

Don't they remind you

of refugees

crowding the deck of a tramp steamer?

Look through my hand lens-

they're translucent. You can see their dark innards

like kidneys in aspic.

Yes, ma'am, they are full-time inebriates,

and unashamed of their sex cam, nakedness.

But isn't there something wild and uplifting

about their complete indifference to the human prospect?"

And then I do something wicked. "Ma'am," I say,

"I love aphids!" And I squeeze

a few dozen from the nearest bud

and eat them.

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After the old woman scuttles away

I feel ill

and sit down to consider

what comes next. You see,

aphids

aren't sweet

as I had always imagined.

Even though rose wine is their only food,

aphids

are bitter.

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    - Charles Goodrich

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