Anne Boleyn
written by: Emma Wells
iPhone flashes
dilate my eyes
as they search for me
in darkened night
bending torches
through nocturnal tunnels
seeking my marble face
or melancholic frame:
a headless oddity
with twisted wisps for hands.
Sometimes, I toy
closing in on huddled humans,
stroking camera lenses
with cloudy, unholy palms:
misting photos
by adding silken sheen
to spectral sightings.
Skittish as kittens
on my day of execution
I ruffle collars
using noose-like breath;
whispers of me
coat corporeal skin
as brushed honey on figs.
Playing up for the cameras.
I was always an actress:
quick-wits, sharp-tempers
//slashing as beheading blades//
Blood drips
from my carried head
lacing my bosom,
forming a crimson coastline;
my eyelids flutter
in mock surrender
whilst spectral coachmen
lick their lips –
too eager to kiss me.
Yet, time is fluid,
racing as blood flow
through hollow fingers…
I’m here for the night,
one night only:
May 19th – every year!
It’s so repetitive,
predictably mechanical,
echoic of Henry’s lovemaking.
Ha! I laugh now.
Rousing the crowd,
headless horses whinny,
chaffing the ground
with eager, hell-quenched hooves
readying to swift me away
as they always do
at murdering midnight
to speed along the drive,
disappearing into my childhood home
leaving broken Os for mouths.
Gone – until the next year
where ghost-hunters
gather in hope,
anticipating my presence.
Tonight, I’m fire,
scorchingly hot,
not willing to bend
for traditional tastes.
Refusing to ride
and board the carriage,
I mill into the crowd
whispering promises
into expectant ears:
stirring a madness
that I feel inside
as spell-locked cauldrons
bubbling with intent.
Hating Henry
Hating Thomas Cromwell
Hating my father and uncle
Hating the coachmen
Hating Henry Percy
Hating Cardinal Wolsey
Hating men (all)…
I linger longer…
A collection of men,
I gather in my palm:
a litter of toy soldiers
or suckling newborns;
they follow me,
unthinking automatons,
ensnared by historical scent;
hungry for phantom touch,
blindly drunk on unknown nuance.
Lambs to slaughter,
I guide them easily:
(a flock of men).
All whisper my name
in childish chants
as I siren them forth
to doors of oblivion,
following the virginal flag
of my blood-smeared veil.
- Poveglia - October 31, 2024
- Anne Boleyn - September 15, 2024
- Black Ribbons - June 25, 2024
