Elizabeth X

Elizabeth X will have cake on her birthday

Despite what her counselors say

They give counsel

Not demands

And she demands cake

But they say the riots roar

Not that she cares

Not that she can

Her better empathies

Were dislodged

In her great-great grandmother

Who was known as ‘The Compassionate’

While she is simply known as--

Elizabeth X

Her formal training

Is in violin

And diction

And debate

She fences

She files her nails

She clicks her tongue

To call her cats

Of which there are twenty-three

Her breakfast is always a danish

Her lunch noodles and rice

She prefers rare steak for dinner

And a snack every Tuesday

Sometimes Fridays

Never Saturdays

When she prefers to sleep early

And forget

That outside

Rioters riot with music

And riot with name-calling

And riot outside her castle

Calling her to come down

As if death by revolution

Could somehow be sexy

And maybe

Just maybe

It is

Elizabeth X flies planes

As a hobby

And tells lies

For fun

But only to her favorite

Historian

She buggers her fencing coach

And her footman

And the man assigned

To tell her things

That’ll make her feel better

About her lackluster reputation

She gives diamond bracelets

As presents

To all of her lovers

And ensures that they wear them

To the most masculine events imaginable

Elizabeth doesn’t care

To hear about her history

From her historian

Or anyone else

She banished books

From the library

But still finds herself

To be well-read

She permits fiction

And romance

And spy novels

That are easily forgettable

But no one dares mention

The ghosts in the hall

Or the dried blood

On the staircase

Or the barking dogs

When dogs have been extinct

For a few hundred years

Elizabeth decides to ride horses at night

And she trots the country grounds

Daring a wolf to show itself

Knowing all the wolves

Went extinct

With the dogs

She shivers in the cold

Exposed down to her waist

Wanting to be Lady Godiva

But knowing she’s more

Lady of the Lake

There’s a sword buried

Deep in her chest

And the strongest man alive

Wouldn’t be able

To pull it out

When she returns to the castle

She fixes herself rye bread

And a poached egg

Placed exactly

In its center

She goes to write

In her journal

But finds that words

Won’t arrive

She writes her name

And writes it again

And it’s one of those times

When it’s hard to recognize

Even when it’s there

On the paper

Asking her

Who else

It could be