The cat is in the box already,

locked;

that black-furred feline breathes

air and poison,

honey;

It is a test of course,

what else if not that. It is

a summoning of death

who lives in the cat's energy

then drains

as the poison drops

like honey from a spoon.

I do not dare look. The box

is under my bed,

hidden;

people might find it and wonder. Honey

after all,

is not just in that box;

it's in their hair,

flowing down like lingering light

(and in light, death lives also)

it's in their faces, their lips and cheeks,

smiles and dimples, trickling, trickling. . .

Hush, because

honey

is also in their voices,

sweeter than sweetened tea,

and calling my name without their knowing

and it flows beneath their skin

like death.

The cat is in the box already,

probably dead.

I'm going out now, need

to get more honey.

There is still so much more room

under my bed,

in the basement and

beneath the flowers in the garden. . .