maids stand legion—
we have nothing
but the iron on our checks, the sex rimmed
over our lips as if
we were bowls, made to pour out
and be poured into. sir, if you
would touch my check
and untie the red skirt, I swear
I will be true, I will not send letters
to your foes in the west and the east, writing
that perhaps death is seen
running riot in mustered
armies, the men
and the horses shining like
dead flies.
while—I touch
the softer wall and wait.
kings are rushing past me like
whore songs, hazy dizzy popping
into my lungs, I am
a small female, not knowing myself
standing at the narrow
and watching my lord ride
away.
the last pavilion 