Her royalty is not in question.
Mouth settling to a flaw
as hearts beat faster.
The roof is bullet-holed,
and light sieves down
to cage her tantrum,
omnicidal suitors circling.
Tribute, both due
and undeserved,
is laid in dainty overlap,
to tempt the prod
or pouting spurn,
fairy tale turned quizzical.
The possibility of mercy
as sudden and unlikely
as a cry for help.
Her song of riddles
is an embarrassment
of falling vowels,
her voice a miracle
of slip and gasp
within the lubricant
of cello and kettledrum.
She steps back to savor
the expression on the chosen
suitor’s face, gazing in astonishment
from his blossoming wound
to her spread and bloodbright hands.