We lure you with mealworms, apple, seed.
Protein being valuable, you risk
the narrow metal tunnel, trip
a sudden slam behind you. As you feed
you hear our voices trumpeting, the scrape
of undergrowth. Light drowns you, faces loom:
fingers pink as yours pinch at your nape
the way your mother used to, lifting you
before enormous eyes. I check your weight,
note gender. Foolishly relax my grip
enough to let you turn, trap-swift,
to bite me. Startled by the needle heat
I drop you, suck the blood. And there –
your signature incision: perfect, square.
If you have any comments on this poem, Suzanna Fitzpatrick would
be pleased to hear from you.