On Return, Cucumber Beetles, & Other Pests

Though I promised when the marigolds bloomed

I would not baptize you in soap water

& abandon you bubble winged—

you came back.

The melon worms following

hungry enough to make skeletons

of the kabocha patch during a single full moon.

            Not the spanish tarragon                  nor the neem oil

could deter you either, little ones.               & though I hate

the smell of marigolds, their bitter death cry, I hate failure mor

& marvel at your persistence. I admit

I lack patience for what I nurture. To watch everything bloom, my starry beetles

then become someone else’s feast

reminds me of Daedalus—the genius invention

love makes of a son.

We cannot blame the sun

for that swan dive into the ocean’s outstretched

waves. Adolescence riddled

with worm holes. White cocoons like cotton balls

swaddled in what’s left of my garden.

                            Yes, I know

the cycle is simple. You eat, sleep, & return

(if you’re lucky) with a new body,

             paper wings so you can leave me

Out Here