CANKER WORMS
by David Radavich
These are the little suckers
who eat up all our trees
within a bald inch
of their lives every spring
as if they owned the natural
world—which they
do for a time—monarchs
of their own green
kingdom high above the floor
of pine-strawed shrubs
only partially attended
by the hand of man.
Females are the worst.
They can lay their five hundred
eggs in a toast to fertility
hardly any males can match.
I must say, I admire
their hunger, their thumbing
at the world of chance
undaunted by any odds,
relentless as the best of generals.
Whole neighborhoods can be
devoured—discreet, leafy streets
delight the most, it seems,
and owners there strain out
their bands and sprays
with furrowed brows like mice.
What drama plays out
each year and has us all
unnerved and poorer,
what power the minuscule
maintain over the big, those
with cell phones, designer jeans,
after-school appointments
and date-books full of
important networking events.
It’s a torment to hate
these illegal immigrants,
who only want to make a living
at our expense and never got
any papers or permission
or even the silver greetings
of trees about to lose their grace.