Image: Queen of the May by Julia Margaret Cameron
I.
in the last days of april
they began cutting down the trees
dressing them like ourselves
so for one day, they are more than just wood and leaves
they cut off all the branches
until there were no more,
then they came for her,
and hung her limbs above every door.
once she would run
through field and o'er glade
until only the fall of the guillotine blade
rang through her ear,
and wind blew through the foxglove
whispering
"your time is near."
so she waited,
lips like a crescent moon
and the first of may came too soon
to claim her.
"i am dreaming of daffodils tonight,
but come tomorrow i'll be
plucked like peonies from this wilting land
under cover of moonlight."
II.
there was nothing kind
in the eyes of the jack-in-the-green
that spun her round and round,
until she couldn't see,
and left her wondering
"how much time is left until they strip my soul
as if leaves from a tree
not knowing there is just as much life
in it, as in me?"
they held out crowns of flowers for her,
and promised her a pot of gold
but when she peered inside
horns pierced her,
thorns pricked her
and within, only snakes writhed.
she was suspended in a place
knowing that even if she made it back,
she was lost forever.
she knew then
she need not run around the maypole
and pull out her beating heart from her chest
for it to be a bloody, bloody sacrifice;
she need only give herself.
is this any difference than what they did to Christ?
may strode towards her with such indifference,
just another cruel day,
since then she has been cast away
for she lost all value
the minute that crown was placed upon her head
all that excitement
just for it to end like this,
a heart that still beats but barely exists.
III.
there is moss growing on her skin,
leaves that shouldn't be there,
excavating her.
it covers everything she touches,
for when they gave her to a wilderness
it treated her with kindness,
enveloping her.
the hawk-eyed town had watched her for so long,
now she is nothing more than lavender
pressed between pages
of books they will never read.
but she is not the one who will burn;
those leaves will cover everything
spreading like something wilder than fire
and she will watch them burn,
like bugs crawling out in terror
of logs cast onto the bonfire,
their homes ablaze;
watch as they scatter like poppy seeds on the breeze,
doors flung open wide,
stepping outside only to die.
"blessed be the curse in me,
and the crescent moon of my upturned lips,
and all the beasts of England at my fingertips."
