Hooked

Often when a poem is written the reader assumes that it is an event in the author's life or one they know of. In reality, that is not generally true. The author has researched (perhaps) but has mostly used their imagination. The poem I wrote below tells a story, but it isn't mine and in my conscious mind I cannot say why I would have even written it. I like the rhythm, I don't know. Read it and think what you think. I think that I like the fact that no one would think of me writing this poem.

Insidiously
I moved
My baluster stem
Body
Swaying
In a mesmeric
Rhythm.
Like a Trapdoor Spider
Near my burrow
I stayed-
and drew the moth in.
I would play him
Like an xylophone
His
Thump, thump heartbeat
Loud.
At my leisure
I looked
He was
Hooked.

Authentic trash
Like the rest
Rubble
Like my first
Like my last
No trouble.

Willingly
He stayed
Knowing no better
My body in his eyes
Hypnotized.
I danced
Like a mantis
About to prey.
Let him
Look his fill.
I rub my mocking legs
Together-
Time to kill.
His thump
Thump
Hearbeat
Is still.
He looked.
Poor boy-
He's hooked.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews