queencaroline

Willows droop their branches,
like martyrs at my grave. Though
a child of royal blood,
I am a prisoner of circumstance.
Marriage chains me to a madman
I never met, as court ladies
and nobles cluck in a foreign
tongue. We sit in a circle, the maids breeze
by like sparrows, but I can
only sink, a lost treasure

wasted in Denmark.
No one to turn to in a throng of
uncaring faces, as their eyes still gaze
at the spectacle, I force a smile; fleeting
elegance emboldened. Beauty disguises
grief in my eyes, and like crushed pearls,
I long for the worth, the meaning
I once possessed on British
soil. With the mind of a child, Christian leaps
into the pond with a loud shriek;

he is the lost King; a husband only
on parchment. The women whisper.
His shadow and he have
begun to argue about sharing
space. My lips are fettered.
Another foreigner to this crude
country, the King’s physician, has kept my
secrets, written them away. Behind a book
shelf the journal lies with threads
tied into double knots, curling
wildly, twisted up like a dead spider’s legs.

He reaches for my heart in this
courtyard, our eyes getting caught and tangled
in the splintered politics.
Longing is locked away with skeleton
keys. A tormenting presence in the warm
sunlight, I can feel relief
envisioning the soft light of the
moon. There, he paints love words across
my skin, and my homeland spills back to me
through his mouth. But the King beckons
me from the lake, hissing like a spastic
duck. I am glued and re-glued,
old bonds wearing thin.

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