Anne Declined

 

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.