Here is the scenario: on any given day
the midlands princess
gets carried away.
“I could walk with a lead heart,” says she.
“When I was a child, I said I’d like to fly.
I don’t know what this means.
My strongest exhilaration
has always felt as such-
my spirit feeling like it’s inveigled free,
then as if it’s racing headlong along the ground,
a touch of vertigo as it rises
with the tremors in my stomach.
So sweet I can barely abide it.”
The sweet bite
Fangs dipped in frosting, leave it in the blood.
Leave a purple bruise shaped like a heart,
on her ankle, where she is always being snapped at.
She rides through fields aplenty.
Not seeing fields of plenty.
She wears her love like a war wound and says,
“Wouldn’t you rather have melancholy, any day?
I’ve lived no plush life. The cushions sewed for me
had the pins sticking out of them.
If they could see inside my heart,
I don’t think they’d find it trivial.
If they could look upon my soul,
I don’t think they’d see one unbuffeted by battering rams.
I think so many of the subjects I have loved
have cast me golden shoes.
I would rather leave those to my horse
I am not so fleet-footed, when they insist
on shodding me with the more opulent cousin
of cement shoes.
But lead hearts
will not trouble me when they weigh me down.”
She will go on like this for miles.
She will never get enough.
Her kingdom of pathos,
a city to grow.
And while in her rounds, she tries to square,
whether life is, indeed, a lonesome affair.
“I have been crowned, and they would
see me up in a tower high.
Though it seems to me, when dying to divine
the bedrock of humanity, earthiness abounds.
Carry me off the battlefield and into your cabin, my love.
Be it in Hell or high water.
For, if, when, the larger sense,
the day is done,
I can’t go to you,
do I want any part of it?”
- A little late posting