Mantodea

Norah Smith

i thought it was a myth  

that i’d bite off your head

and feel the weight of your world 

in my hands.  

smooth spindly exoskeleton 

going stiff. 

beaten broken

breeding body  

between my mandibles

like man

face to face with medusa. 

i think—

some part of me wishes i was born different—

perhaps a butterfly—

my foretold fate one of flittering and fluttering—

or a spider,

decorating the corners of eaves and attics with her beautiful, blanket webs,

dewdrop gems adorning her abdomen,

rather than 

maming and mating

and munching

and munching

and munching. 

but

who am i to go against instinct?  

i promise to tell our children about you.