She’s sensitive. Breathe on her there’s a bruise.
Her skin can only bear the finest lace
woven by spiders. Sunlight on her face
will blister. She wears tissue paper shoes.
And yet it’s not enough. The real thing
needs nakedness in darkness to survive
held up by gentle puffs of air. Eat five
delicate wafers every day. The king
expects no less as proof of noble birth.
He wants a queen so useless she can stand
as perfect trophy. Touch her with his hand
she’ll bleed to death. He’ll lay her in the earth
Then find a love so hardened against peas
she prays with several underneath her knees.