The Buddha Rat

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,

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 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.

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.