Letter From the Tower of London
On 19 May, 1536, Queen Anne
Boleyn was executed. A few days
later, King Henry VIII married
Anne’s lady in waiting, Jane Seymour.
You stole my title, my king, even my horse
while you strung violets in my hair, one
by one, your waist cinched tight by lace corsets,
your fingernails craving purple paint. You won
him when his son broke unborn in me. You toasted
my sister’s banishment, my brother’s rise
to scaffold. Now, crows circle like severed ghosts
beyond my window. My hair hangs to disguise
the things you say I am: six-fingered, crooked
as broken teeth. There is too much dividing.
Thoughts like blades. I’ll hand over my books—
if you can read—my chestnut filly, my riding
dresses, my crown, my heavy pickle of a man,
his neck like a badger’s, war-torn. Tomorrow
I die—too many tomorrows, the Frenchman’s
sword delayed again. Time sings like sparrows
outside. I dare you to reach up, try to take
those songs from me. Try to grasp as clouds
close in, soft among the stars. The dark
lifts me. I wait. More beautiful than ever.
Boleyn was executed. A few days
later, King Henry VIII married
Anne’s lady in waiting, Jane Seymour.
You stole my title, my king, even my horse
while you strung violets in my hair, one
by one, your waist cinched tight by lace corsets,
your fingernails craving purple paint. You won
him when his son broke unborn in me. You toasted
my sister’s banishment, my brother’s rise
to scaffold. Now, crows circle like severed ghosts
beyond my window. My hair hangs to disguise
the things you say I am: six-fingered, crooked
as broken teeth. There is too much dividing.
Thoughts like blades. I’ll hand over my books—
if you can read—my chestnut filly, my riding
dresses, my crown, my heavy pickle of a man,
his neck like a badger’s, war-torn. Tomorrow
I die—too many tomorrows, the Frenchman’s
sword delayed again. Time sings like sparrows
outside. I dare you to reach up, try to take
those songs from me. Try to grasp as clouds
close in, soft among the stars. The dark
lifts me. I wait. More beautiful than ever.
Jan / Feb 2024
T. R. Poulson, a University of Nevada alum and proud Wolf Pack fan, lives in San Mateo, California. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in various journals, including Best New Poets, Gulf Coast, and Booth. She supports her writing habit by delivering for UPS in Woodside, California. Find her on social media as @trpoulson.
Art: Donna Morello, Collage