the polished blade of the corridor
leads her to the council chamber

the eyes of the leering lords
latch to her heavy gait
their minds full of scorpions
their breath of iron and decay

for it is true what they say that
even your own shadow
abandons you in the dark

someone spoke of grain and maize
someone spoke of borders, blood
your grace –
no, let us proceed

the realm awaits
the wheel shall never miss a turn

let rattle snakes rattle
let weeping willows weep

never let the frame
of things disjoint

not even as beneath
the ancient swords and banners
white ink
blossoms
through her silk –
warm milk
meant for a mouth
no longer hungry