We wove our yellow curtains
from old dresses and scarves,
draped them in our bedroom windows
so that the morning sunlight
was butter-hot, and thick.
I am told you have twelve soft gowns.
And we sang in the courtyards at night
while the princes slept and tossed in their velvet beds.
We were the owl’s sharp cry.
Our skin flaked pale with moonburn.
Every morning we serve you grapes, and two eggs
boiled in their shells. You eat with tiny spoons.
And we got drunk off wine in the cellar,
spooked the horses, slipped pebbles and dead bees
into pies they served the King.
So. It is I who crept, yesterday, into your baths
to soak your towels and smash
your honeyed soaps.
The rivers were ours. The elms and cold pools
were ours. The fields of birds and grass
and wild mustard were ours.
Does he sing? Does he
steal for you? Does he
grow lavender and mint for you? Does he
know how you like to be pulled
from sleep, slowly, does he
wake you with small touches, does he
wake you as well as I did?