She brought in the chairs from the garden.
She folded them, stacking them up,
and saw that some grass would soon harden
from wine that had spilt from a cup.
She brought out a box for the rubbish
that someone had piled in a heap;
she picked up the shards of a soup dish,
decided the drumsticks would keep.
She stood up and held her sides tightly,
she felt her young bones grind and crack,
she still thought her stomach unsightly,
and stretched to ease pains in her back.
The funeral now at last over,
she held all its scraps in large bins;
forlornly she looked at a clover,
but then heard the sound of violins.
Two thin girls stood next to her playing,
their red eyes insistent and cold,
and helplessly she began swaying,
for they had her gripped in their hold.
Her hand slowly reached for a steak knife,
the violins increased their sharp whine,
and with a sharp stab she took her life,
and from her vagina flowed wine.