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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) On a Spring night, 1537 the nude mistress from Poitiers confesses her thoughts. The king still a boy, bids me to shed my black silk and sculpt his room with curvaceous moonlight. Outside, doves sing in the evening garden. They are white and supple as I was when first attending court, a girl bride who found solace in the lakes and arbors of Fontainebleau. Now I lean on the rim of youth's mirror grinding age down to the powder that conceals my face, the blend of wild flowers and bark that lightens my hair. Still, Henri finds me beautiful beyond maidens his own age. Nineteen or less, they despise his affections toward la belle savante, the huntress who taught him to pursue lute and sonnet, secret corners of shade and torso that make women crave his touch more than sweet cream. As a gift, he gave me these birds who grace the lilacs and harbor peace. Yet, beneath their fair poise -- I know discontent strains to fall heaped around bare ankles like my gown, a darkness I cannot rip out of my life or wardrobe. The king still a boy, bids me to love him but another evening will come, light will filter through the leaves and so will a younger, blossoming shadow of Diane. To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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