III. My reasons for leaving are still unclear. I’m in a daze, sit for hours in the sun, children scurrying like elves— wisps of gold and light— through an unmowed meadow. It’s a lonely throne. He’s away all day— my only conversation howls or jabber. Occasional cars fly past across the border. I read novels—Anna under the wheels, Emma vain and afraid, Tess betrayed. So much awaits me that I won’t understand. Time will render these years in pastel hues— except for an umbrella or muddy boot— something to remind me I’m simply human too. IV. Something to remind me I’m simply human too— it’s not a story, I’ve been told. All these strings entangling, strangling—making it difficult to breathe. Sometimes overwhelming, this role of being queen. I struggle to inhale, swallowed something, can’t remember the taste. Once I studied geese above a pond, arrow pointing south, listened rapt to a story— border guard’s wife who disappeared. Now my plot has thickened. I experiment with potions, enfold myself in shadow, practice escape—blank pages, trains, pretense. There is no release. Power is a heavy cloak, without a realm, invisible.
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Linda Sonia Miller
SIXFOLD POETRY SUMMER 2013