on her throne. She decides your fate
with the third knuckle of her right index finger.
You kneel before her as she uncrosses her thighs
your head in her lap
and armour in a heap by her bed,
stroking your face into goosebumps with quiet whispers.
Never have you moved so quick as
when you fell at the feet of sweet Guinevere,
asking you to lay down your sword
and lie down with her.
Atop the gallows, your lips bleed from the nip
of Anne Boleyn's front teeth,
her eloquently ribboned neck upon the guillotine.
And on an oak desk sprawled across with
battle tactics and maps
Elizabeth holds you to her to breathe in
your new favorite color in her hair.
It is bred into the women.
Woman wears the evening star on a dainty
chain between her breasts,
and tells the moon when she has had her fill,
that he may go.