A friend of mine wrote a spring poem. I liked it so much, but it needed some polishing to reflect spring in Kagoshima.

The air is drenched by
The scent of fertilizer and rotting
Garbage. The sounds of something
Skittering across the kitchen,
As if to say,
“Spring has begun!”

The antennae tease the air,
Tossing, brushing, tickling
Playfully, searching for dust and
Discarded skin and dropped food
To eat with its horrific mandibles.

The cockroaches–
Large bugs you can fear.
A smear of dark brown
Or chitinous creatures
That some call pests
But I call pets.

Their wings stretch and open,
Greeting the cloaking darkness.
Black eyes glisten like the night sky
Relecting the nightlight

And below the refrigerator,
New food lays, ready to eat
A gift from the landlord
Delicious, poisonous

The dying roach whispers
“Spring has begun.”

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There is another trapped cockroach under my pink bowl. It has lived there for almost three weeks, presumably eating dust and its own excrement. It lies unmoving until I nudge the translucent bowl, and I watch it skitter a lap around the rim of the bowl, searching for a new exit. There is none. Its antennae twitch in frustration.

Upon sighting another cockroach near the sink, I opted it was time for poison. Purchased a set of little roach-troughs. The top is transparent plastic so you can see the tasty little bright red poison cake. It looks like some kind of cherry and peanutbutter candy. The roaches eat a bit, then stumble back to their nest, or hive, or commune, or whatever roaches live in, and die. There, the other roaches rejoice at the free, self-delivered meal. The consume their fallen brother, and along with his spirit, they absorb the poison.

Everyone dies.

But what happens when your cockroaches are still adolescent? When they eat enough to slowly kill an adult, without being adults themselves? Clearly the poison works more quickly, killing them faster.

Killing them too fast.

They manage to get a foot away, into the middle of the kitchen, before somehow maneuvering themselves onto their backs, to die a slow, twitching death. I had to wait a couple days after finding them to sweep them up, because as the broom neared, they would start flailing their limbs, trying to desperately grasp the straw. I had to wait for them to weaken enough that they wouldnt grab the broom, wouldnt take flight, and I chucked them outside.

If the roaches dont win a physical victory over me, they certainly have won a war of morale. The thought of their death disgusts me. The thought of their continued presence disgusts me. They’re HORRIBLE.