The worm in her corsage un-spins raw silk
back to mulberry. Amongst pink blossom,
blue-arsed flies are swarming: their life cycle
pins the day down. As a child, she drank milk
to make strong bones. And here they are, to prove
her mum was right, though predators toss them
aside, half-nibbled and drained of marrow.
The last name to leave her lips was Michael;
who was no archangel, but stank of Brut
and neat JD. He laid her on yarrow -
too late to staunch her wounds – the lore of root
and leaf no comfort, for this tangled bed
of weeds is not where she meant to remove
her dress, nor beetles take her maidenhead.
