Yanyi

The Queen sits on a throne of gem-trimmed robes. Between her robes the jutted moth, it follows dust. She can’t rest before the funeral, her self- unmaking, some maid whose hair is browned by blood; a matching queen. Nights’ dim candles, grackles’ glib decrescence. Now dance, now weep. No rest for feet still warm from summer’s phrasing — odors / ankle / thorn. Keeping time while dying, the Queen grows bored, her hand’s throat out, amiss. (Yet I sob, I paw. Yet) I kiss.