The Queen must be beautiful, I understand.
Even a candidate must have qualities
not insulting to the throne. The King's hand
discriminates. I've watched it hovering
over this canvas or that, assessing
fearful calculated veracity.
I made her beautiful, to be worth the trip.
It worked - the likeness endures,
clear of cast and sensuous of lip;
my warnings heeded. The court is wise.
The girl's writhing hands and very shadow advise
of my three hours bent to her allure.
The sable collar of her mourning coat
lolls like a noose, its falling swags
disguise her form, my lady floats
across the vermilion floor (I stood her
on two books). Her smile recurs.
One husband down, gloves twisted to wet rags,
eyes that never leave me, sardonic
brow that never falls, a face
propped like a mask on a stiffened tunic -
my silence as I knelt, Henry's silence,
the caw of birds, the signalled violence -
the blackened edges of her exquisite lace.
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