Transmogrifying Honey Battered
Muddily the morning crept.
Though rain often causes fowl lungs
to top off with droplets, drowning so many
of the raised-head dummies—
Chucky the chicken, rooster to some,
cocked his head, juked or jived
at a too-inopportune time
and startled a sting from the resting
transmogrifying bee.
This was how Janet skipped
into the scene upon waking:
the broken syringe, dangling
microscopic bits of bee belly-flesh,
plugging the swell of purple—the sundered
venom sac pulsing in toxins like an IV—
which caused Chucky’s clunky heart
too much issue with tissue constriction.
Janet wept for her perished pet,
mourned the morning, played
devastated Dr. Frankenstein with two 9-volts
through lunchtime. Her cries even survived
as eggs and flour and honey and paprika
were whisked together for a batter
that could staunch any tears.
That would stop her tears.
No crying at dinner, Janet. Enough already.
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