That’s right, stomp on me,
bring the heel of your shoe down
upon my slender gray thorax,
grind my antennae and my elegant
red wings into the concrete;
you who have agreed that we
must be murdered on sight,
lest we upset the delicate ecological
balance for which you, with
your combustion engines and
your factory farms and
your on-demand lives, have
shown such reverence;
what matters here is the
delivery system: you, or to be
more precise, the soles of
your designer boots and
your brand-name sneakers,
which carry bits of our guts
into your homes, where we’ll stay,  
driven into the cracks between
your floorboards and smeared
into the fibers of your area rugs;
we have no plans to revivify—
this isn’t one of your elementary
science fiction entertainments;
rather, we’re sustenance, an
inexhaustible source of fuel for
those following behind us;
you cannot fathom their
capabilities and hungers;
it will be some time before
they arrive, but when that happens,
you will be forced to revise
your collective understanding of
what an invasive species can do