RIP ANNE OF CLEVES

anne,
          there is a queerness
to the way your eyes are     lifted –
         like     'perception is doom
                                       
                    but how dare you not gawp
                    at my

                                             horse face!'


                       the glabella                                             nose heavy like
                       that yawns                                              bronze, pluming
                       to hold the brows broad                         downward

                                                              protruding cheek,
                                                              plump as a  
                                                              tudor royal


how did it feel to be the low-hung crop?
               though perhaps not the fruit
                                   but the creviced bough that
                                                                          never rots?

                                                   when did it hit, anne?
 

RIP ANNE OF CLEVES

                                                                            the epiphany, i mean,
                                                                            that it’s more peaceful
                                                                             to be memorialized as
                                                                             'horse face' than to
                                                                             stay married to a
                                                                                             murderer?

      oh, anne,
      that wasn’t your fate
      but still, here you are
                                                             beheaded

    like a dandelion in a flower press
                      that says 'i am not a weed –
                      i look out from a sunset & my shadow means i'm 3D'