Honey ran down the stained-glass window
of the mausoleum.
It tasted sweet, like pomegranates.
The tomb was silent
and pregnant as the night
but the flotilla blasted
the door down. Out poured a tsunami
of virginal blood, as thick
and sticky as corn syrup.
A white man in a gray suit rode the tide,
clutching a fistful of counterfeit bills.