I spent my morning smooshing as many aphids as possible on my various milkweeds. Those plants are looking pretty shabby and droopy, just in time for the fall monarch migration and last egg laying extravaganza. Not cool. (Did find 3 cats though.)
So I give you an instant oatmeal kind of poem:
My Fingers Are Yellow With Aphid Juice
I won't be calling any truce,
won't be waiting any longer
to quench my aching hunger.
Aphid guts. Aphid guts.
For an hour beneath the August sun
I pressed aphids against my thumb.
For an hour among bees and grasshoppers
I weaved a maniacal path,
spraying the slaughtered aftermath
in a rush of tepid water.
In the evening I'll raise my hands
against the window, cover the setting sun
with the fading yellow almost undone--
on my skin, in my eyes... aphids, aphids, aphids.