Eighteen for a month, regent threats destroyed,
she sleeps a princess’s sleep, still dreaming
of helping the poor. Feels a cold hand toy
with her forehead’s curls, slick fingers seeming
to control her psyche, wakes to mother’s
stare. Three a.m. Still in her dressing gown,
she flows through her sitting room (won’t bother
for a robe) to two awed men who kneel down
before her. Conyngham kisses her hand.
The Archbishop prays, “The king is dead. Long
live the queen.” In a moment she’ll command
her bed moved from her mother’s room; make wrongs
right at last. Through vast stained windows, the bright moon
gleams. She longs for Albert’s kind smile. He’ll come soon.
Roger Armbrust
October 26, 2011
