2,722 Readings


City where no one is from, city
that billows like the tumescent
moon, city that closes down
when the girl arrives with her bags
and her ragged diadem and all
her men. She announces herself
to the deciding park and the main gates
close. She shows her mother’s brooch
and the main gates close, they cry
and they close, they’ve rusted. She isn’t
the first. Her men attend,
they paint themselves & they press
those paintings on her, their books
explain the beginning, those waves.
The structures that wavered when
the moon came down. She has no
new reasons to send them away
& the city is hers, it wears her name
underneath, always, it won’t protest –
she is terrible in her rule.
Posted 02/16/11
Previously published in Barn Owl 4.
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