Your Psalter at the Morgan Library
stands upright, opened, allowing bright view
of white satin binding, embroidery
of silk, turned to Psalm 110. You,
educated in Paris, must have drooled
at the book’s French script, your flashing brown eyes
focusing on blunt words of kingly rule,
enemies thy footstool, saw your crown rise
with that third line’s fertile phrase from the womb,
all while knowing good Cranmer would approve
your marriage. Did you foresee your heart’s tomb
at St. Mary’s? The hooded swordsman’s glove
sweeping toward your neck? Or feel dread when you read
that last line: therefore shall he lift up the head?
Roger Armbrust
October 19, 2009
