Dionaea muscipula
Lured between my fleshy, nectared lobes
Something sweeps across a trigger hair
Then sideswipes another one with wing,
Antenna, or mandible. Whatever:
Entombed alive in an instant’s close.
With each writhe, contortion, or flail
Against these tight stomach walls, I will
Constrict toward a hermetic seal.
I will break down my prey, cell by cell,
Under ten torrid suns and lukewarm moons,
And gorge until it has been reduced
To a formless husk of chitin
Spat upon the grass. See my white flower
Perk—so beautiful, so innocuous.
