Not the six fingered queen with her drifting eye
but the hot-cheeked scullery maid,
breasts resting on the plate of fruit she carries.
Not the King, head-soft with syphillis
but the stable boy
beneath whom the princess pants
with her belladonna eyes,
her legs locking him to his pleasure.
Not the knight who crushes the Arab child’s head
but the shepherd singing away his fear
high on the hill, enchanting the circling wolves.
I don’t care for all that gold bled from the serfs.
I would have the freedom of the smith
with his spark-burnt arms, flagon of sack
and the laugh like thunder before the spring rain.
Power is in the letting be, the holding love
like a bright bird, and gently, gently, rising.
Copyright 2014 by Doug Anderson
Reprinted in Vox Populi by permission of the author.