When I Am Queen

Mood: Akasha, gliding into the Admiral’s Arms
like a clean, svelte claw; the wound
surrounding, young glove, can’t call itself
a wound, too caught up in every second
of becoming, gored into creation,
gorgeous— Look at her:
angles, ancient geometry, emerald,
gold, bone and obsidian sashay, indigo inlays
lethal as the beaks of falcons
a glare like a fang slices through.
They look, mouths syringes, thin with the muteness
mutilation snakes shining out of. It is too late,
later than usual, for them, their abuse
of her black gift dull and purple on their little lips:
the plum thieves. Her disappointment swivels,
oh mother, magnetic on her axis, hips
bare scythes equating. The orbiting eyes
of the coven, recovering, want to fetishize her
anachronism. They don’t know the world
is still such a narrow throne: you must have
the walk for it. These kids have
the waste about them, have been bastardizing
night in and night out the world’s restless
circulation, slick as sewers, ambulating
with just as much promise in them.

She is taking in all of this as she
takes in blood, what she knows
better than anyone now that the king’s
blood is also hers, taken, his neck excavated
like a cliff a quiet mesa secrets in its breast,
her necklace. Mood: every place is a small plate
you push up to, its conversations
like overlarge spoons turning the same images,
tightly contemporary, unimpressive. She obsesses
this basic corner of earth into what it can be:
carnage, brazen and glinting in the dim light
like embers, and here, a heart for eating,
giving up to her the blood as does
one of those old-world horses she can recall
needing—it is here, seen clearly,
its mane crazy against the rising fire,
four joints twisting into haphazard brackets,
a different beast come shrieking,
exceeding the expiration of its flesh,
majestic. This is the song
in the song they thought they knew,
had picked it up on their stroll of mere centuries
until her body, not a history, still writing,
wrote it on the floor. And it is too late. Let
what won’t learn burn. She is already walking in
to her crown, sliding on the fit eternally. Some prince
bored with being has been singing
to her, trying to, his growl draining
out of this moment’s pure instrumental need.
His need—she will feed there, too.



© 2017 Justin Phillip Reed