Dining (Queen Anne Boleyn)

By -
Seven years
of not close enough:
of lust embroidered  
buttons,
your bristled cheeks
ruby flush
with the me you can't have;

you would shiver,
King.

Now you act like you don't remember anything,
glare with impatience at the goblet
you drank from,
turning my bones pewter.

Did you taste your wine,
notes of clove
while lifting your hand, a sign for another?

My eyes flash silver, teeth clenched
from the edge. 

I am everything you wanted
to undress,
except the present tense.


C. LJ Ireton, 2025

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