I stole those things:
The King’s minted silver coins and the Debutante’s
molded sugar basket, sweet collectable souvenirs of Camelot;
the fermenting liquid cherry-centered chocolate gifts;
the soft, still-warm pelts of a child’s slaughtered pets.
Oh, and this; the rhythm and tone of the demented
priest’s song. I hid them here.
From where you are
you can’t see them
multiplying. As if I were indestructible. No one intercedes
anywhere for me. The trees, why even the trees masquerade
in ways I understand and loathe.
Brushing my henna hair in the rain, finally, I know your god
is not a woman. He does not flame. He is unfriendly
and indifferent, and he is too small.
Concealing from me the sky and road; these were buried
in ice. Divinity ignores me and smolders like the smoke
of cold fire inside its own eternal
absence. So many years I wandered.
Before all of this, the destructive and informal jugglers
walked off the stage dragging their blunt and hollow toys.
I couldn’t instruct them then, but I can now—
because of making up for the lost
dreams. They surface and press;
naked, I smile and juggle and they juggle in the solar eclipse
wearing my old costumes. They crown me
Queen of the Living.