THE LITTLE QUEEN
Climbed naked in the wind.
The undead
queen.
In hand, a jeweled tiara.
Her body pressed
The fossil wall wet fragments
Of the wingless
And the winged.
. . . .
Cheeks deep ribbed
By deathmask, she
Looks groundward:
Gardens, smokes of green,
Seaward,
Vessels, flecks of foam,
And tombs,
The bare white marks
Upon the mantle.
. . . .
On the point
At Alexandria,
Far away,
The lighthouse spun out
Feeble spokes of light.
Welded on her brow and loins
The shreds of tombcloth.
Windbourne
She pulls up.
. . . .
A statue come alive.
The molecules of stone
Made heavier,
And eyes, ears, mouth,
The salty taste of sweat,
And breasts. . .
And then, the rest.
. . . . .
Aloft.
Lies naked in the storm.
Turns upon her stomach,
Smiles,
Then over on her back.
Lets wind and water cover,
(Laughing)
Enter,
Cleanse away the fingerprints
Of gods.
Serene.
She dons the jeweled crown,
The risen queen.
. . . .
What is that face
Above the rim,
His brow still scarred
By the mask
Of hawkishness?
. . . .
Like a tawny slave
In some quaint
Corner of a frieze,
The little queen
Assumes
The pose
To glorify the senses.