Consort (Carriage & Miscarriage)

1

Her name meant pure, virginal, black-eyed

daughter of the Moors. Held a summer-ripened

womb, wove small deaths into rosaries. Andalusian

hills of memory, shivelight through the black oaks

of Kimbolton: Mary, we are mirrored

halves of something never whole. Claim

no other queen, honor thy mother, one true

king or god.

2

The brown doe spied

through the shifting branches, the garden,

the plum-trees, the phantom feet of those who danced

before. There was water boiling, wine untasted,

her nightgown, stained in a blood unvoiced. Her body

deflated, left with silver tacks, unworn

nightcaps, unripe fruit cut from

stem. One daughter, one ghost,

a lingering sun-ring on the river.

3

Half past the hour, the Queen rose

from bed, her moon-bright infant flung

into life. Her eyes darted wildly, as the warbling tulip

of her heart waxed & waned through the red-

curtained chamber. Her pulse echoed

violently, & the doctor elected to bleed her. The boy-

child wailed, rose-crown slivered

through holy wefts of hair, as his mother

forgot & remembered

her body.