Mabel in her common gown, her common fawn-coloured Norwich gown kept her secret tucked into her glove.

Mabel came team-handed. Able as she was, she didn’t bleat. Camel meat on her table for her meal to eat, she didn’t blame me. Her tame cat let it be. We met her mate, Able by name who carried a mace and took a cab to abet the rest, but was late. Mabel would never amble when she met a man who made her melt. Meta, in a lace and cable belt, leading a lamb in her lea, beat with éclat and an elm bat at a beam… blam bam! Mabel had to soothe with balm and ale after she had paid the tab. She put on her camblet shawl and went abroad.

A sorry tale.

Mabel cradled her lozenge.

She coughed a lemon-drop and pushed it up the hill.

Did she reach the top?

Her hands all sticky from the gelatin glaze, her gloves left behind on the kitchen table.

                     The putrid yellowed shell snaps her bitty fingers.
                     Her cuticles detach.
                     Barely pinking crested skins tear apart a sticking mess.

                     Her fingers break their crusts of bone.
                     White emperors protrude above her knuckles.

                     Beside all her finery palatial bones taking the place of her sexed figure:
                     sweet sticks stacked into shapes up against the incline.

                     Scented candies. Svelte wives.