Pickled puppies in a row of mason jars
adorn her shelves. Her gnomes know nothing.
Squirrel skulls clack, hard and small.
In Road-kill Season the unwary possom,
the dumb raccoon become the bony wind chimes
by her doors. What more to tell you
of Victoria's secrets?
She makes
a stew to grow the hair. Beware!
The rug beneath your feet was once
her husband. See the lack of teeth?
She wears them as a pearly necklace
at the dark of noon, when all her
one-day-stands come calling.
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