Or like grim flowers in the monarch bed. We march with buttery wings.
The men come to swoop us.
We tease them with pinks.
In serial blooms, they swoon.
Oh what luck to be plucked, we say.
We gnash teeth against their bristle.
Oh come now, flowery song.
They sing until their tendons snap.
They sing while we lap up the fat.
As bones shatter, the parsed men ponder— a beauty
a beauty
a rage and a beauty.