Three bees are sucking at the mouth
of a dead mouse—three girls smooching 

with a small corpse, tightly buttoned in 
his grey morning suit. 

The brides are willing, but the groom has 
jilted them on the garden path. And yet,

three bodies humming with life are feeding 
off the cadaver’s tongue, French kissing and 

canoodling, buzzing and blissing out.
Do they not know that their lover is dead? 

His mouth is pulled back in a toothy grin, 
and tiny claws seem raised in pain, making 

a crucifixion on the charcoal slab. Oh, Mouse! 
Three Magdalenes are sipping at your lips,

three rounded floozies who will fill their bellies
and fly off to ring the cowslip’s bell,

leaving you couched on the cold stone,
your flesh dribbling the last of its sugar 

while the garden fizzes and hums
to the demented thrust of summer.

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