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We’ve been told
that a woman is made,
not born;
but I always believed, a queen
comes into this world
a golden child
with destiny
marked on her aura,
a certain unmistakability
extending from her skin,
signaling meteors to
be on the lookout
when she falls,
telling the dormant oaks
sleeping inside acorns
to anticipate
something magnificent
to materialize
anywhere she can be found.
It will not be
anywhere on her body,
but it will be visible,
something about the way
she’d let the rain
fall down on her
will inspire devotion,
something about the way
she’d converse
with the black of night
will remind you
of tragedy,
or romance…

I’ve scrubbed floors,
and looked at mirrors on walls,
and ridden on horseback,
and gotten lost
in the woods alone,
and made bargains with
big bad wolves,
and kissed a lot of frogs
and nothing happened,
and slept with
a pea under the mattress
and didn’t feel a thing,
and tried on the slipper
but it didn’t fit,
so I learned to
face reality, but…

I knew you were a king
from the day I first
laid eyes on you
and somewhere in my blood
I knew
that being loved by you
was my birthright
the way dauphins
in Medieval kingdoms
get betrothed from the womb

and it took a while
but you did
also realize
I can neither be
your subject
nor your friend
and should
no less than own
a jeweled throne
by your side