Early June, and my mother’s four prize Peace roses shine
with a rare iridescence. Opulent satins—blush-pink, cream,

glistered green of ripe leaves—now doubly burnished
by a host of raiders brilliant in metallic blue-green head

and thorax, in copper-colored sheaths sheltering each wing.
The Japanese beetles glimmer in humid light as they eat

buds out from heart to skin, ravage each leaf down to skeleton.
Aghast at plunder, my mother sends my father out to slay

the invaders sapping her precious shrubs. Rapt, I watch
as he tips the snouted canister of gas, decanting amber

poison to a jar, to rid her world of pests. He spies the beetles’
hiding places, readies the death-jar, steadies it below.

Nudges the gleaming bodies in. I fidget, eager for my turn
to serve. I learn how to clap lids tight, to keep the beetles

safe inside. Hold out my jam jar clogging with the lacquered
dead, my ears pink with praise. I learn how to sacrifice

to make my mother smile. How beauty has its consequences.
Obligations. Price.