The Queen of the Laestrygonians and I
had dinner once in winter. “Your meal
is my treat,” I explained and she bat lashes
like blades to call me under her covers. “Tell me
a story,” she said. I sewed soul’s yarn into saga,
cried a wayward seafarer’s tears into her
alabaster palms. I betrayed myself, told
tried tales, part truth and part punchline. Her
thick tongue kisses tasted of me; brine of her breath
raised Braille gooseflesh on my neck, letters
spelled out love, for a while. The first poets were bards,
blessed peasants praised and saved to entertain,
so I gave myself into slavery before I
knew whim and the Law of her kingdom. A queen
may eat anything, but chooses her meals. My sweetmeats
cure in summer sun, these days, chained to her
pasture’s palisade. I wait for my lady
with the corncrakes and cow pies; kept
“just in case,” too thin a meal for her taste.
I wait to hand feed her my heart: all bards also
fools. Inside, I’m sure, she’s quite the coquette:
begging some suitor, a barrel-chested manchild,
to show tenderness, as he whispers, whimpers in
an abalone ear, a bedtime story he hopes will win her.
(2005)
