Mercutio in Death
Death is a stone swallowed of desolate pentameter.

A sexless parishioner,
agriculturally articulate,

though to see him you would gasp from the sight -
the congealed wound,
eyes sunken pits,
lips shriveled and curled,

in truth
the phantom maids wallow
in their screams for him.
Their dark hair sheathed off at the neck,
burned as an offering to unkind Gods.

They have laid him out,
bones meant to be mangled
as apple trees, uprooted weeds;

his mouth
now a tomb,
young maids swallow their
breath whole, turn themselves
into ghosts to lay undisturbed
beside him.