resting on a cracker pregnant with divine significance,
she lays her head askew.
to the right, a pile of lace veils too worn to serve any purpose
to the left, a hank of rope, a striking snake of green hemp,
too many clocks ticking to sleep,
too many hearts beating.
grey mice, brown mice, climbing over the wall by the hundreds.
They look so soft; they are so eager,
with pleasing teeth they show their tiny hands to her as
she nods at each in turn, they have washed,
they have earned the favor,
and she breaks off bits of her bed
to feed them.
Even her rest becomes someone else's food...so sad, but somehow vital, queenly.
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