The Night She Slept Poem by Jack Oates

The queen is dead, they said;
the hive discordant,
fractured into counterpoint -
rumours like oil slicks
of mordant moles
among the loyal drones.

Beneath a veil assassins snuck,
crept in cells and stole her breath;
nectar laced with nightshade traces
from foul blooms
that smirched the humming glade.

Crystalline the hexed halls,
pollen dusted attic floors,
petals strewn among the eaves,
sweet comb broke below the firs;
frost pales the gabled faces -
sugar smeared to hide traces
of soft shells scattered in lattice.

Soldier ghosts
in nameless trenches;
workers' hollow wordless howls
curl like softwood scented shavings
on the empty dented benches.

And while she slept, they wept;
opiated gasps that drew them down
beside the feathered cot.
Grey light cast between the lead,
smelted down to pewter drops.

Grave globlets
dribbled like honey from loose lids,
glid over gilded cheeks,
bleached their limestone lips,
whispering wishes of an end -
or no end,
or amber rain
to wash away the residue.

Sinners one and sinners all,
stacking yarrow on the breach;
kneeling before arcane spirits,
yet finding no levee in balm,
nor kiss,
nor homespun sonnets,
nor dark confession,
to halt the leech.

And all the while her frantic bairns
suckled on her puckered throes,
seeking slivers and fleeting glimmers
of the flax that pricked her
into royal repose.

Sallow stalks;
tulips dry as cracked wax,
cornflowers in her hale gaze
shrunk to pinholes in the papyrus.
Golden curls on a laundered pinafore
hang like sodden cobs
in her laudanum dreams.
Straw drawn veins course

with fair thee wells unuttered,
with platitudes unmuttered,
lost to the past and pinned to posts
tied with lines of dew strung silk.

The queen is dead, they said.
Blood sticks, syrup thick
spittle slick, sweet glue drips
down the drumhead;
brittle bones on a dry hide
draws the pulse to a pause.

Sonorous the bell blue air:
silently they gather.
No words to paste
to the peach flock walls.
No breath to waste,
no crack to crawl too small.
No tongue to taste
her smoky minted maw
no more.