Histone's Anastasia

"What happened here?" sighs the detective,
and to the setting sun her face is turned, its
surface warmed through the reflection in the glass
splattered by the long ago sea storms and oaken
fast.

"Not sure exactly, but we have an idea," smirks
the candidate, his long paper beard dragging the
soft floor of the stomach.

The detective pulls a black cloak over her head.
Someone has written on the wall in charcoal, maybe
the purpose, or the victual:

Kindly attain to its recompensive enter

and there are ducks in the room,
their brilliant heads reminding you

of purple ink blobs
suspended in milk

bulging sacks of white leather
cinched up and hauled up

a huge bee's face
staring up at you
through the steam
of the chowder.