You catch more flies 

with honey than with vinegar— 

and Honey, 

she tastes like nectar. She’s 

a soft white bloom 

with no patience for 

honeybees. She craves 

the beetles, the spiders, 

the ants too small to notice, 

the low-life terrestrial insects 

lurking in swampy muck 

who can’t resist her 

hidden center, fleshy and pink. 

She’s dying out, no longer wild 

but cultivated 

for the enjoyment of a swarm 

of little boys who like to force 

themselves into her mouth, to trick her 

into snapping at their sticky fingers. 

It’s happened one too many times, and 

She’s tired, ready to burn it all 

And grow back from the ashes 

of herself, ready to bite back at the boys 

with their honeyed words. 

It’s no wonder they named 

a carnivorous flower 

after the goddess of love: 

the daughter of Dione, 

ready to consume the moment 

anyone gets too close.