Shakespearean sonnet from the dressing room, Tues/Weds
My legs became his throne, my breast his crown;
I was his mink-lined cloak; he wore me well
So I began to stand alone, to drown
In my own hips, to know the subtle smell,
The call to arms for men who would be king.
Undressed at his command I then took charge;
The battles that we won began to sting
And I confess my victories were large
But only his had teeth; so I was torn
By him at last, a tigress limping, wet,
Exposed, shredded, a fierce, fresh thing unborn.
He was a gilded weapon hot with threat
And in the end the bed was soaked with sweat.
I’ll bleed him out and then I will forget.
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