Japanese beetles hummed about my head, their iridescent thoraxes reflecting the summer sun. I closed my eyes and decided they were humming in the key of C sharp. I stood in their chorus and the sweltering heat while I considered my problem from different perspectives:

Poetically: Rainbows were feasting on my blossoms

Scientifically: popillia japonica were consuming my rosaceae rosa

Practically: Japanese beetles were eating my Knock-Out roses

In loose agreement with Shakespeare, I concluded that a rose being eaten by a beetle of any name was still a dead rose.

I brushed a writhing cluster off a bush and surveyed the damage. The leaves, once green, were now pock-marked and browning. Their edges brittle like fall leaves, they crumbled under my gentlest touch. On one rosebush, I counted eight disco balls of beetles, each a revolving pile of insects dancing with each other while they feasted on the flowers I had carefully fertilized and pruned. Anger bloomed inside me as another petal drifted to the ground, its surface marred by mandibles.

I prepared for battle. For my weapon, I mixed a batch of Sevin, insect preventer and killer. For my armor, I donned elbow-length garden gloves, covered in pictures of tiny wheelbarrows and spades. For my helmet, I chose my straw hat, coated with insect repellent, to protect my head from both sun and foe. Thus girded, I made my way into the fray to deliver my first strike.

I chuckled as my enemy fell by the hundreds, stunned by my poison. I coated leaves and blossoms alike, speaking aloud my disdain. “Take that, you six-legged rose eaters!” Soon, beetles lay in piles on the ground, their dancing slowed to an epileptic waltz of death. Satisfaction filled me as I dubbed myself, Lady Karen, Protector of Roses.

Motivated by success, I plowed my way through the row of roses. Soon, sweat dripped off my face and arms onto the leaves, mixing with the pale white insecticide. The rainbow bugs, noticing my sweat, considered it a moisture source rather than a nuisance. They congregated on my arms and soon became entangled in my hair. The humming grew louder in my ears, until I was forced to stop spraying as my hands were required to swipe away swarming reinforcements. Finally, I retreated to the protection of the house in surrender.

I began scraping beetles off my arms and hair—stomping them on the floor. While this method of extermination was slower than spray, I found it immensely satisfying. I noticed a lone popillia japonica inside my bra, resting quite comfortably in my cleavage. Must be a boob man. I chuckled at my own joke and reached to remove him. He deftly crawled out of reach.

I threw off my clothes and ran to the bathroom mirror to find the pest. I couldn’t see him on my back or front. Frantically, I searched the floor and countertop, but there was no bug to be found. Just as I decided he had flown away, I felt movement under my left breast. I raised it to see that solitary beetle resting in the hollow under my bosom, just below my heart. He was not dancing or crawling. He simply lay there on my skin, soaking up the moisture and the heat of me as my heart pounded beneath his tiny frame.

I gently removed the creature that had chosen asylum on my body. I gripped him between my fingers and counted the different colors on his exoskeleton. His legs moved, leaving faint scratches on my fingertips. He raised his wings as if to fly, but I held him fast, watching as his joints bent and flexed.

I carried him to the back door and released him to the summer sun, humming in the key of C sharp.