REM Stage 6: A Poetry Blog || julie niklas

Queen Anne has left cobwebs in her room
under curtains and in the places
she never used her broom, and through
the clouds of smoke her amber tip glows

illuminating ash like rows of nameless crop
suspended in the embrace of an illusionist

Queen Anne used to trace the ridge of God’s brow
with the heel of her thumb as if
she were sweeping the minute hand past the hour
and she has left her kingdom go to dust
let spiders turn to spectacles in pots and pans
spinning silk lines into rust

Queen Anne has sewn her fingers
like a cross-stitch over fields of lace and
learned to read the worry lines
aching in her face as deep as Mississippi

and the way she holds her gaze
keeps June at bay for just another day

Queen Anne has cut the seaming from her stem
and set herself in flight like a transatlantic jet
and we see her trail of smoke dissipate
at quarter after ten fading
white to green until next time
until then