Ruth Stacey

I am Queen and I shall do my utmost to fulfil my duty towards my country. Duty is a slapped mouth, sewn shut with cat-gut. To my dear, loyal subjects who are assembled to show their good humour and excessive loyalty. Apes, hyenas, jackdaws: how they screech and caw. How proud I felt to be the Queen of such a Nation, the Crown being placed on my head, so gently. But such a weight! Monstrous as a beached whale. It was, I remember, a most beautiful, impressive moment. My robes draped on the chair beautifully. White body full of blood, bruises that bleed. Nothing was done without his loving advice and help, darling Albert was the other part of me. FIlled withlife after life after life after life after life. The only ray of comfort I get for a moment is in the firm conviction and certainty. I remember the chloroform. So blissfully empty of voices. of his nearness, his undying love and of our eternal reunion. Impatiently I wait and I do my damn duty.

In today's correspondence a poetry book detailing the lives of British Queens— with a note enclosed and a question: what does it mean to be a Queen? I could reply and say — this precious stone set in a silver sea: a symbol, like a banner, for mens' love. But these are not my words. I could reply and say— glorying in the glories of my people, sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest. But these are not my words. I could declare— that each Queen is tissue paper thin, transluscent but combined, are my flesh. But I will not solidify my words, instead I will command my secretary to write, with many kind thanks for the little book etc, but to say my thoughts on Queenship can only be ascertained by my actions.

Woman was made to serve and obey man, Man must obey God. Wife: man can command. A natural order, God's ordained plan; A woman must bow down to her husband. England needs an heir so I must marry But yet I prevaricate and tarry.

Deer do not tremble, I know this. My bone and sinew twisted into fallow slenderness and the tibia twig thin. Four rods finished with a cloven hoof planted on rotting leaf mould: gloomy weight of the gold altar. The poet's words are wind-blown apples. Plucked lute strings vibrate to silence as I watch Caesar with my velvet eyes, long ears poised to absorb the rush of animal clamour that is hushed in the shells of human skulls. Despite the blood threat of power my doe body would not spring away — no flick of spotted fur into shadow.