through her diamond windowpanes, a little recessed,
she saw the pageantry of ghosts. alas. they come no more.
and the regalia of dreams is dead, half-dead.
she was never that good at fractions, chalk scratched
on an emerald slate
while longing to be somewhere else.
longing to be someone else in another time and place
is no disgrace said the Queen Mother, once.
it could prove useful by and by.
but now I've stitched your cherry petticoat in all three places
the royal puppy chewed at play while you were dancing
on the pond's sweet winter glaze of ice.
and you'll look nice in your mimosa overskirt of tulle,
organaza whatever it is that we've got left from
our last move from our last castle, stashed away.
and the regalia of ghosts is stashed away now, too.
they come no more.
the heart is jettisoned;
the valentine thread
that ruby, shone.
the pink-shored maps.
the amber saps of trees;
knights in their plumes,
ladies to the door.
the moonlight viewed as poetry, the sun, the sea.
the bells clang uselessly now
from the ghost cathedrals,
vexing the atheists.
mary angela douglas 21 july 2014
