I Confess I’ve resorted to murder, here in my kitchen filled with basil, bee balm and thronging castes of blue-black crawlies— insular troops, tiny mighty, committed to a crisscross of skewed geography, my countertop the pinnacle of misguided missions. No matter how often we skirmished— vinegar, garlic, ginger root, hot pepper sauce strategically smeared, they marched, an endless cadence, bodies immune to TikTok’s tender of panaceas. Thus, my about-face to warning labels, skull and crossbones, the safety-sealed containers, their catalog...
