He said he was looking for his lover
In the woods
And in the poetry, he’d read after dark.
I was looking for him in the faces
Of the paintings
On stucco museum walls.
Was there something that he saw
In the branches?
His darling nymphs and angels.
Was my crown of brambles
Too modest?
A Titania shrouded from pleasure.
I wish very little for his affection
Yet thirst for it,
Unquenchable boy prince.
Sword stowed in its scabbard
Resting at his side.
Boy prince, dare I bless it?
Am I not a Queen by most accounts?
Yet I am the fool
Who was bewitched to fall in love with him.
A feminist retelling must correct it
I never loved him
Rather I never knew him.
That crown of brambles
Has thorns
And it draws blood with each pinprick.
Philosophy cannot be found in
The arms of poetry.
I have no mistress nor master.
Lyric and epic are my realm
As is the wood.
I am the wicked witch transformed into maiden.
Adore me, crave me, thirst for me
The tricky poet concealed
Behind his blinding masculinity.
Search, little boy prince for
Your nymph lovers
In the places where I lie
You will never find me
Veiled in luminosity
