i think the mantid was already in trouble
and my attempts to help didn’t make things very much worse
I’d already had a few encounters with spiders
real and bourgeois that weekend
cockroaches i’ve dealt with elsewhere
but the mantid, dead by now you’d think
is stickier, my feeling for it not the fondness
i have for ladybirds or ants of a certain size
but tiny hooks of obligation, maybe its the face
like a Hollywood alien
it’s deflating to fail in an attempt at rescue
I was looking forward to carrying it
carefully, on the matt side of a postcard
toward that tree i always think i’ll photograph
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