The shape of her sleep

Who are these unresolved’s at the Tudor court to meet me? They are the marriages – – –
They are Katherine, Anne, Jane, whores of the king.
In my veil and paper dress I have no protection,
They are sumptuary laws, enforcing social hierarchy.
They are smiling like new virgins winking murderess eyes.

I am naked as a corpse, do they not love me?
In blackwork hoods with beheading axes,
They’re all nodding heads; my skin is milkweed white;
They smell fear knotted under my armpits.
Blood clots are dragging up my spine.

I cannot run, I am rooted in time, and the tyranny of Henry.
The mind of a hive thinks this is the beginning of everything;
If I stand still enough, perhaps he will think I am childbearing,
Sealing off his sperm, his guises, while quietly humming
Like a midwife with a breastplate of cheesecloth and a blood smell.

The old queens are untying their disguises,
The villagers are moving the virgins;
I am the king’s girl, must live another year in animosity
While in a Tower cell riven with finger joints and bones;
I am exhausted for a chopping block and a raven feather.

Copyright © 12/24/2018 lance sheridan®

The shape of her sleep