“‘Tis a present for the King,”
declared the first blind crone,
“A two-mouthed serpent, a mighty thing
to drape upon his royal throne.”

We warmed to each other
grading freshman
writing exams
in annual three-day grinds,
me admiring
her conservative dress
and reserved smile,
but also the migraines

uprooted from antiquity,
it dwells in possibility
dreaming of a vanity
it will not know –

its crowdedness unmeshing
requires scythes for threshing
to keep it from enmeshing
Corsican sheep.

She is on the pill. My sperm have built
a monastery inside of her.
They illuminate manuscripts all day.