A crown pushed down on my head,
my own sword pressed my shoulders,
“Kiss me, your Majesty,”
How could I but obey?
I cross myself when I see her stretched
across our bed, with the smell of a friend
clinging to her hair, my fingerprints
reflecting on the gold she wears,
and I remember it,
even from the secret berm
where I await; they say I will return,
and when I do, I will feel her hands
resting on my hair again,
the only crown I ever wanted to wear.

By Heidi Turner