Days She Was Queen

by Patricia Wallace Jones

He promised perfection
and prepared honest slices
from a cared-for wheel, simple harmonies
of homemade pickle, sweet-crusted bread,
bass line given to a pint of bitter.
Atop the Tor she first heard her heart,
the rapid beat, high-pitched klee of a kestrel
hovering, savoring each death, small and repeated—
the seer’s intention when he gave her forever.
Asked for more, he dwelled on her smile.
That would be nice but not likely he said—
the wizard’s penchant for promising
nothing he’s yet to divine.
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