The Squire

The Squire

I need a light. This heat has stirred my brain

And breeds from tangled silks unquiet dreams.

The wind’s in the weeds. What fool would brave this night

Where stars in fistfuls cross a beaten sky?

What fools, it gives me jitters now to think,

Would wrap themselves in cloak-and-dagger winds

And, lamp a-flicker, stab through darkness’ realm

To carve a little sovereign for their light?

And would you join me on this balcony,

Perched low, no doubt, beneath your father’s gaze,

And send up smoke to peck his royal cheeks,

Or stay behind your curtains, soft and safe?

Your loss. This leaf is rich and sweet as sin,

A cutting from my master’s private patch,

And if the dullard’s worth a goddamn thing,

At least he showed me how to stuff a pipe.

What did your father teach you, love: your wiles?

To charm a man or girl with treacle words

And velvets, till your last decree be done,

And send the sulking suitors to the streets?

Oh hush now, princess, I’m just making light.

It’s not as if you hold much love for him,

And even less the bloody man’s campaigns,

Else why invite my armor by your bed?

Though why invite my arms, I couldn't say,

A scrappy girl indentured to a knight

Who welcomed me with rough and wandering hands

And sent me dummy spars to keep me dumb.

I’ve had to start a fight with younger boys,

Blue-blooded brats, so I could raise a sword.

Those thicks, of course, were picked to fumble flags

When King and Company went off to war.

I really can’t complain, though, can I, dear,

For all your loveliness I’ve overseen,

And all in all, it seems a marvelous trade:

That while they fumble cloths, I fumble lace.

No, not that way. It’ll pinch if it’s clamped wrong.

I swear, with all the stitched contraptions here,

The lily lacings, corsets, and brassieres,

You’d know by now how goes a simple clasp.

Now there, respectable Angel of Death you are,

Done up in frayed kerchiefs and dented plates,

A huddled mess of vengeance on the way

To regal reckoning—or to the stocks.

Shall, riding on the howls of half-starved fiefs,

You hack apart an ailing dynasty

And, as a whirlwind overtakes a field,

Allow the jubilant mob to claim the throne?

Or shall among the bulging stares they find

Two girls, one’s posture perfect (save her neck),

The other stopped stock stiff, fists drooped and twined.

How full of scorpions, darling, is my mind…

Hmm, yes? Of course. My cigarette is out.

Well, come on, now, help me into this dress.

And it will be worth more than just your kiss

If no one sees me through this paper veil.

Now, like we practiced, raise the blade and—snap!

And it goes rolling, mad-eyed, down the plate,

A feast befitting butchers, then you break

The smokescreen ball before you leave the show.

No, you’ll not swing. You’re just some scrappy girl.

I’ve paid that lecher off to speak for you.

And once you’re back to take your "rightful throne,"

My bones will grin ‘neath grit to see you come.

Laces so tight? You are a naughty girl.

But they’re expecting us, so that must wait

Until we fools have braved this battered night.

Put out the light. Farewell, love, and we go.

For Kate, with warm regards, admiration, and as much shamefacedness as I can muster