Jan/Feb 2004 Poetry

Fate of the Human Queen

by Amy King


Fate of the Human Queen

Small allergies run up and down my spine
and I've run out of things to tell you. Here's

the seventh wonder of your bony perfume: it
cleans my scaled back. On this state line I am

in two humidities. Wherein lies the law that says
no suspension. Apart we are brief humans floating

in a double negative. Let the Diagnostic Age
begin. Hang the tapestries, call them

Pasts. This one bears Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria,
the air hung with boats, readying completion. Send

up the festival lights for her mache-papered frame,
seen across the water's self, a walking person.


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