by Brad Rose

A still cunning coaxes your unwitting prey
toward the scent of nectar and swelling fruit,
where the charm of easy beauty
has beaten a path to your lethal appetite.

Crabbed tight and tensile in clenched deceit,
your venom, perfumed, sweet with waiting.
In the gentle petal, pink thoughts of ambush bloom,
where you’re perfectly poised for gorgeous victory.

How many of your eyes will glimpse your kill,
as it expects merely a honeyed cling,
while your meal is lured, blind and unaware,
to an inexorable devouring?