Of all the streets, this
is the least.
The mud lingers on her hands,
it splashes up her feet.
With tender cruelty, it embraces
of her slip.
To the angry residents
set ablaze by their grief,
if not the sun so harsh
it offers no relief,
she is no queen,
only of all the sufferers
the most steeped in sin.
And yet even though
her loyal servant is always
at her elbow,
she continues to pace and to know
that the only lasting peace
is the vacant joy she embraces
with her lips.
In her husband's palace, she is queen,
she dwells in silk, satin slippers at her feet.
Her daughter's feet are singed,
no silk awaits her, though her mind
is too wed to joy to know grief.
She knows heaven is the alley
of her mother's hurried kisses. But how long?
Is it her crime her mind is so wrong?
Thus thinks the queen is her greatest crime,
she dwells, painted, in her silken cage,
while dust and alley cats
are her daughter's playmates -
she seeks no better in her gleeful haze.
One day I'll break free thinks the queen,
but she knows the harsh sun
will never see that day.