I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman;
But I have the heart and stomach of a king.
–Queen Elizabeth I
I command the English troops—this time from the bathtub.
My body floats soft & pale atop the water of a white steed. A tight fit
But perfect position: knees bent, butt at heels, back flat against the melamine.
I wiggle my toes under the last trickle of hot water.
(There are concerns about our 33-year-old water heater, as old as I am, prospectively crucified by the End of the year as it struggles to filter hard water laden with iron’s rusty blood.)
I bear armor of skin: baby-hardened, decorated in scars and stripes. My reign Peeled back into layers, eviscerated. Tucked in & sewn together, I am
The Queen.
1) the Spanish Armada & 2) coats embroidered with moon-silk, #ffff5 (which would look great On the crown molding, high-gloss) & 3) my army of two & 4) our embattled fortress at Tilbury, a Citadel-Home. By grids of grass & perpendicular lanes of clover like the pointed ends of stars, Parallel moats, we are reinforced, battle-ready.
But before we win, there are shrieks, inconceivable wails. They pierce the divine chaos; And for one second, it appears time’s tell-tale destiny has come: a rise and fall of fortune. All of the living are howling through the horror of life’s arrest but me.
Long Live the Queen
There is no war—
It is only you mowing the grass of our lawn. Our one-year-old daughter bobbling on your lap, Golden curls bouncing in hues of alpenglow. Her peals of laughter ricochet through our holler’s fading afternoon, our red-fox Labrador chasing and biting at the blade.