The
day was numb at her slow death.
I
mourned, my eyes stitched red,
followed
our church law
to
her low grave.
Incense
hung outside my door.
I
could not swing on my father's coats.
Nurse
gathered and sat above my height,
drew
faith as tight as my laced bodice,
thin
lungs pinched in this near room.
I
grew gossip, intrigued
where
marriage matched lands.
Threads
were kin in my crewel-work,
framed
a firm house,
planned
counts for my bed.
Weddings
were sudden in fashion.
My
own quickened in court,
ten
young days to meet him,
our
hands tied with rings,
ribbons,
revels, contracts.
My
fine sheets were creased
a
night when the looks began.
A
frame to bear great England.
Three
months to see the needle set,
nine
to count heads for new designs.
I
sickened of statecraft and sewing,
stitch-work
by day, laid-work by night,
caught,
free, the air in the gardens.
I
grew lean with longings.
That
first birth was death,
death
in my eyes for eighteen years.
Health
slipped away in blood,
I was
carried from childbed,
sickbed,
deathbed, funerals.
The
house walls haunt me still.
I sat
and coped with my bright silks,
stripped
thread from each completed work
while
children and kings went down.
It
tired me. I was not taught
to
pick apart the seams
that
other years had made.
Faith
and all those deaths led me on,
my
crown handed back by corpses.
No
achievement in my succession,
I
could not sew in Council.
On
its advice I changed
the colours
worked at home,
twined
strands dull as the pitch
of my
far wars. No clash here.
Where
no heirs were I shook out
cloth
from time to time,
watched
ministers fall with the dust.
Sweepers
of floors were secret then.
On
days I walked, my skirts
caught
dirt and stayed corrupt
for
years. I did not ask for this.
I
left my used clothes to my maid.
English
hausfrau, they call me,
potters
about her palace,
crafts
children for crowns.
What
time did I have for
commons
or kings beyond the door?
All
sowings were heirs, so
seventeen
babies I bore and buried.
None
were immaculate births;
tombs
garnered the years
I had
to give. I'm worn down
to the
bed to birth my death.
No
loss now. My late Council,
on
the warp of my worked chairs,
will
state that I did succeed.
