Cut-Glass Queen

I have journeyed on a road that I cannot return
from—these dark woods are made of trees
with bitterly bright-feathered bird-branches,
and I fly above them in my blue balloon,
but the basket tips low, they peck, they scratch
and my ballast must be thrown—I have no anchor
now, I am free to roam, but you still hold me
down, and

I cannot believe what I have done to be
your false queen— this diadem digs
into my scalp like a surgeon’s
scalpel, and I waited for the weight to lift
me up, let me loose, let me breeze
away, but what can I say that cuts
me free?

You are no king, just the lowly jester I
expected to give me a ring but you have
proven me wrong and oh, what a sting!—
but it turned to laughter—
who knew betrayal could lift you forever after?


I am not your cut-glass queen, not now,
nor have I ever been. I am just a woman
on her own adventure, my parasol shades
me from sunlight, my telescope peers far
into the skies, and my brass goggles see
through the fog of men’s lies, deep into
the heart of what I despise.