THE FLOWERING OF THE QUEEN OF NIGHT

Hymn For a Valkyrie in Battle

It is said that the Valkyries have spilled their tears where and only where Queens of Night grow.

If you have learned to thank the trees for their shade, you know

by now

that transmutation is a complex magic.

A slow unfolding of events

watered with tearshed and fertilized with table scraps

is occurring and

at the center of it, the queen of night:

a rosary of unholy intent and hammered moonlight.

Somewhere in the center of the thing

a flower waits to be a flower,

which is to say worth more

than the dirt it was planted in.

Somewhere a steady diet

of watery moonlight and fresh blood,

the not-yet queen,

a love song written on the skin of the night,

her perfume hanging in the air

with all the imposition of a noose.

In our own way we worship.

We practice intoxication,

ritual sacrifice,

water the someday Queen’s roots with offerings

of glitter and dark liquor.

We fit our finest violins with heartstrings

and play songs of syrup and honey to the fledgling shoots in the key of

light.

We genuflect before the almost queen’s

almost throne,

pass a ceremonial lachrymatory from left to right

until our cup runneth over

with grief,

holy and hateful grief,

the thief of all things wild and free.

We weep chlorophyll, bleed

stigmata at the threshold of the tomorrow-Queen of Night’s chambers

the night of her coronation,

stand fast before the tides of the damned

until dawn

when at last, the ivory bells ring

and subjects gather singing in the streets:

Salve Regina Nocte,

amalgam of fury and temperance.

salve, regina.

encase me

in the cathedral of your heart

amongst its vaulted ceilings and hidden rooms.

salve, regina.

Teach me not to suffer in silence.

salve, regina.

Turn my leaden tongue to gold so I may filigree your holy name upon my teeth.

Note From The Author

once upon a time I wrote this poem for a woman i loved.