Millificent
       

No one has entered
the stone of this place
in a century, the dust has powdered
even the cat's lashes. Still I sit, robes folded, crown
pinned upon the river of my braids, their diamond
points have not forgotten how to find the door.
Once there were feasts here, tables set in silk, glazed peacock
and pomegranates so ripe a look from me would tear their skins.

I love the quiet.
The void of voices begging me
for youth and vengeance, for the fastest way
to travel over water or how to spy by moonlight.
I love how my hands do little but settle on my velvet lap.

Afternoons I rise to circle the gardens, the devil's trumpet large
enough now to shade all that lies beneath: moss, pond, the small
star blossoms that burst in clumps along the earth, so bright,
content to bleed their red selves into shadow.

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Copyright © 2011 Emma Trelles All rights reserved
from Tropicalia
University of Notre Dame Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission