It is in the slow turn of the head
the light green pose so statuesque,
one soon forgets she's but a living stick,
barbed legs and fangs, no nun.
She once had sisters but she ate them all.
She has not one. Her hormones moan,
her pheromones have brought a suitor.
She tilts her head, admires his sex:
her object of delight, her dinner.
I wrote this while reading a chapter of Ted Kooser's book, Poetry Repair Manual where he makes reference to a praying mantis as a writing prompt. We should all have an insect poem to go along with kittens, puppies and children.
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