Petal, dream in the great hallway
in which you ate
vanilla ice cream
from a chalice when
you first came to court
with your uncle, a wise
man with moderate time
for children, the King
of Clubs, resting his head
on his elbow. Petal, tiny
spoon to the rescue
of the crushed bean-
people. A frivolous
story you told to feel
kept, kept as a lapdog.
I do not blame you if
you’d like to take a moment
to remember the ice cream.
Perhaps you’d like to stand
in this doorway in your
ragged robe and let the cold wind
over your tongue.
You can pretend the fur
of your arms is a worn
fur, fur of another
animal. You can cast your
howling eyes away from your
lot and stroke
your imaginary doll, her
hair milky as slit apples.
Petal, how did you get so
desperate, no silver
to your name, no silver even
to buy the green candle you’d
need
to cast this spell for money.
drawing
the dollar sign into the dust,
pulling your sleeping mat
over it. How luxurious
you have a sleeping mat. How
luxurious you can wipe away
dust from your floor, even if it is with
your fingers. How luxurious
you have this stable with a
door to the weather, purple
storm leaning in on the
city. Here is a stone
to sleep with. Here is your
uncle’s first knuckle. The revolution
brews in the city’s papered walls, smart
soldiers budding in every corner,
their fingernails painted with sunlight,
starlight, lantern-light in secret
meetings. Petal, be ready
when they show their faces
at your door, adolescent
and willing, a question framed
to your lips and the knuckle-stone
containing its desert to be
thrown. They have been knowing
of your power and want it, think
there is a bedful
of money.
Petal, wasn’t he wise, your uncle
who taught you to read
and be still, block horse
stationed in stall, stare ahead wanting
for nothing,
you walked
the pasture in your pocket,
like friends, bump of your
lips learning his language, rumble
of his lips showing it yours,
patiently, but firmly. You were
a persistent machine, his
favorite
arc of the sky
in your eyeball, a grey slate
finance / marvel / shovel
with which whole lines of aristocracy were
uncovered, drug to light. Just
my Joan of Arc screaming, Petal,
nothing new, the horse’s language
in my pit-bone.
What do we say? we say hymns, hymns.