Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Queen in the Crook

I’ve a queen in the crook of my arm, my arm,
a queen in the crook of my arm – who is not
now evincing much charm, much charm,
since she’s feeling no little alarm, alarm
claustrophobically crammed in that crook.

This wasn’t the look to which we’d both agreed
when I took her away with a promise to heed
every clause in her creed, to be treated
according to strict protocol, always laudably
shown to her own best effect. I forsook her,

displayed disrespect in the way I waylaid
and portrayed her: subordinate player to me
and the bend of my late-middle-aged-naked
elbow. I might just as well have discarded her,
carted her off to a dissolute barn in a farm.

But queen, oh my queen! I do plead with thee
please to be seen as I see you: the pulse
at the heart of our magical kingdom, less mine
than it’s yours: in the pores of my nakedness –
yes! (and oh no) – not remotely disarmed

by deodorant. Comme vous êtes francaise,
I had hoped you’d be pleased by the unmasked
aroma of man-on-his-knees to the ruler he’d
move flesh and soul to appease. Then, of course,
that tight squint and un-ladylike sneeze.

I’ll clean up and get out the Febreze.


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