A crab-spider, luminously white
lies like a fallen petal gently curled
among the other petals (the other fallen),
in a snowy moon-mound scattered round the base
of the terracotta vase on our coffee table,
and so perfectly imitates Mock-Orange blossom
that the honey-scented room
seems to nod to it, to acquiesce
in its mock death, its dramatis persona,
its stagey rendering of harmlessness,
of flowers past their tipping point, gone blowsy,
and falling through the air. I too am fooled

and only when I try, once, twice, to scoop
it up among the other petals, am made aware
by its tiny bite, its fulsome, needling, venom.

I think of you then, in hospital, in Dublin,
imbibing your necessary poison.