Dead Cats and Poisoned Frogs
The feverish python made you shrink
like all the other little Hamlet's
Cerberus bribes: Business men
in silk ties, boogieing Isadora’s
whose scarves tangle when they
trundle around the globe
choking on meth-amphetamines.
They grease the bodies of social
in the back of warehouses.
You bring me Mariachis,
or Japanese paper moons
on my birthdays, but I am a virgin
attended by banana breads,
and an old withered Madeleine.
Money is the sperm fluid
dead cats and frogs take
to your bed—your breakfast,
along with freshly cut roses
imported from Iran while you listen
to drums announce the countdown
for yet another electoral confrontation.