Queen Mary Had Only a Tumor
as her Phantom Pregnancy
We all know what the phoenix is about.
It glories in the flame like Dido burned
Upon that throne. That passion has a clout.
It has its flame, it is the flame, flame turned
Upon itself, flame causing us to die
And live. The phoenix is your center, placed
Where love cannot be doused. Its wings can fly
But they are spread to fire, to make love chaste
Again in agony. It opens wide
Death’s wings like Cranmer purifying sins
Because iniquities become a bride
When we submit to flame our loving skins.
The image never comes along with sound.
The phoenix’ loves in silences confound.