QUEEN AT A PARTY
Does the green dress sheath Herself,
brain included? Married others
shift limb to limb, parakeets on a wire.
Madrigal, bloodrigal, chattering goblets,
was she Herself? Who Who, Queen
lowed across the fields. I must hoard
in my nest quarks, physics, bites
of self on self in furs, potpies, till my
things and I are one sleeping orange,
our nightmares lame ponies with death
spots in the hooves. She might, yes,
invite a lady to creep her palace,
breed children for her, as a snake…
Queen, a false flower shedding paper
petals, shooting down the clouds
which frowned her. Bosom heaving
at the sight of puddings laid out, bombs
crouching in gelatin. Off she sneaks,
tail in a demon’s belly, digesting.
If all is orb, Queen is a spade poking,
a painful grass in ether. Circled
by others, theatre of moons, melting
ice cream, their party-dancing spins
a top: baby, queen molting into sugar.
To be sure, a dead rat will drop
from the cupboard. It is certain,
the sink’s juices make snakes.
Outside, trees do not communicate.
Disease and leaves design the same.
Clouds have no harnesses, no desire
to break. No birds sing of mammoths
just for her; no mammoth will carry
Queen off. Each creature is a wall,
ornate, guard of nothing. When fleas,
seals, and barnacles speak at once,
that is the best the world can do.
Cacophony is crown, the rest is dim.
Queen removes her bloated dress,
her bloated skin. Pulls them on again.
Queen calls her royal gods to hall.
How terrible terrible to be oneself,
she prances. We gods nod. One god
is insects. Another—fox vomiting
into a fox coat. This, sandpaper,
maybe pyramid. Egg ecstatic. Q
punches gong, runs to the pond.
Queen’s robes are so long. Roll
beyond, coattails pinned to land.
Ungulates chew shrub-cathedrals
in her shawl, hoof the back. Spots
stampede, neon-green with avarice,
envy, pity. Herding purple-yellow
flowers. Q’s robe-road grooves,
shouting with trampled water.
But where is Queen? Is she with us,
in the hall? No—she is on the Great
Lemon Boat of Suffering. But near?
No—worshipping a glamorous potato,
its princess hair. But is she—? No.
At the locust dinner. Inside hot
nostrils, she inhales, inhales the Earth.