The ladybug arrived in red, of course—black spots
like sequins. Ladybug had read the invite twice
and dressed to match the brief, not knowing red
was the one thing its body knew how to weep.

The mantis came in green—swept Ladybug
straight from wallflower. They danced the way
you dance when someone’s watching from the balcony:
tucked, calibrated, small talk pitched to the room.
Ladybug practiced in the mirror for a week.

The mantis clinked a dewdrop flute all night,
bent the stem toward certain guests before they landed
and away from others—nothing heavy-handed.
Ladybug was good at being held.

Mantis kept his hands in the position of prayer
even while dancing, even while he praised their
multitudinous eyes. The band began playing
something slow. They circled round,
Mantis and Ladybug  a blur. The balcony agreed

they made a lovely pair. Mantis asked Ladybug to hold

a final pose. He leaned in close like the last line of a song,
of a thank-you note—and when the mantis lowered
his mouth to throat—the Ladybug went on saying so,
and so did most of it round the ball, and so did they all.