The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poetry Break, 10/26/07 Bonus (warning: graphic language)

"The Emporer's Second Wife"

I light the extra room and stay there nights
when I’m not called. I curl in the empty quilt
and know she’s with him. I pull the blankets tight

and hope I won't remember how she goes
to him in nothing, original and dank, denying
little. She understands his need; she knows

I'm filling in the nights she's unwilling.
She knows I’m twelve years old and only starting.
But I’m the one whose sleep is shallow, spilling

into day. He's everything to me but lover.
He tells me, if we don't make love, it's right.
It's best my spirit stay intact, all over.

No one else must know. They think the two
of us are fucking all the time we're here.
But we just talk. The rustling girls who do

my nails are scared for me. They think I'll swell
before the winter. But in the chamber’s privacy
he only wants to hold me, kiss me, touch and tell

me I am gracious. He won't do violation
—that's what he calls it—so we lie beside
each other, tumid with desire and the patience

of two statues. It's wrong, he says. You're young.
You should be learning grammar. I cover my face
when he says these things. I ache. I've just begun

to see the error. He think girls happen slower,
that as long as we're unopened, we're immune
to breaking. He imagines I'm intact all over.

That lady must go. When I learn magic,
I'll erase her, have her put away for stealing.
But she doesn’t hate me back. She brings elastic

ribbons, ties my hair in twists. She comes
with plates and pastries. She gives me stockings, pins,
and slips, and asks me if our husband's won

me over. I tell her he is all a girl
could want, and more. She snickers when I say it,
then agrees. In recent months, our emporer's revealed

another side. He can't be still. She likes
my work. It's clear she thinks I do the service.
We talk about his mouth, his hands, his eyes

and feet. She says, when I'm a few years older
I'll be deadly. She thinks I never cry,
that I'm serene, divine, immune. Intact, all over.

—Adrienne Su

In 1997 or so. Stuck with me all these years.

keep it up!