It is my name they want,
my claim. Not the gold.
There is no gold. There
is no forged iron
It should be a party,
but it’s just me, some
toothless matrons and
unwashed maids.
My mother let’s a single
tear scape from her
good eye. She pins my
hair down, scrubs
my feet, gives me a
bouquet of sad flowers.
The tear leaves a white
trail on her face. Discreetly
she squeezes the vial in
my hand and I know
she knows my secrets. My
secret afternoons
in the hay, in the
abandoned towers.
I thought it was called
happiness
Now I know
it was the devil
He is everywhere,
looking at me from the
church walls. Sometimes
the blond fallen angel,
sometimes a beast with a
trident. The vial of swine
blood is my protection
spell, the shield against
my sins — maidenhood is
no redder than pig’s blood
The vial burns a hole in
my dress. I try to conceal it,
I have to conceal it,
but all the men are looking
— beasts adorning
shields and breastplates,
cloaks of different colors,
all tones of black and
grey — Anointed Knights,
Lords and Sold Swords.
They call me sinful, false,
barbarian,
so many meaningless
names…
still they want me
wedded and bedded,
but not under the sacred
stars, not our way.
My sweet days are over, the
haystack boys
are dead, heads
preserved in tar.
The veiled threat
The silent promise of
death
I hope for him, Sir or
Lord, to be fond of
oysterwenches and
washerwomen, bring me a
bastard or two every so
years. That would be a
good life. Bracing
myself and that goddamned
vial for the destiny of
a gauntleted hand against my face
I make me strong with my
own armor: A moth
eaten dress, the veil
that once was tablecloth, a
crown made of orange
blossoms.
Tamed, I surrender
myself to him, dressed
like a wife, like a
mother, cloaked in silence
until he is wounded by
war or sickness
I will have his blood
then,
I will have him suffer.
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