The time will come… Anne Boleyn wrote these words in her prayer book of Hours. I imagine her, like a raven turned woman full of hope and her hand gripping the quill like the edge of a cliff. What did she desire? Happiness? Power? Love… I don’t know, but it broke my heart to read her last letter before she was killed by the man who challenged God- first by wanting to marry her and saying FUCK YOU to the Pope; then for wanting to, and taking Anne’s life with a sword.
In her letter she doesn’t beg forgiveness on her knees, she is brave and tender. She does not take back her love, merely exposes his own vanities…
“If you have already determined of me, and that not only my death, but an infamous slander must bring you the enjoying of your desired happiness; then I desire of God, that he will pardon your great sin thereof… Your most loyal and ever faithful wife…”
It makes me sad that fucking mugs have Henry’s ugly grimace on them- we call a murderer a king and put his face on mugs at the house of the woman he loved and murdered. I DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS WORLD I DON’T UNDERSTAND IT.
But I was with my grandma, and not with any King. We talked about how Swan’s fly and walked under Wisteria vines. Today’s poem is for Anne- I do remember you, and if I could have, I would have held your hands in the tower and we would have plotted your escape xoxoxoxoxoxox
I think silly things with him in my head.
Suspending glitter like the disco ball I always
wanted but never got.
Outrageous stuff like “the world is wasted
without him here.”
Or, “the light climbing up through those clouds
over there is nothing against
the look on his face when I make him laugh”