I.
She will rise like the phoenix;
as the old cliché goes, she will.

The sky will burn back and she will
take what she had left, burning it
to perfection like the yolk of the egg
once broken for mouths to feast on.

II.
A hanged star on a muggy night
hides from her presence; her falling
fingers, crashing towards the sea
making the old sky jealous:

She made the sea as gorgeous
as the night sky with a scatter of salt
for stars. She winced at the cold.

III.
She trickled my eyelids
open, and called my name

with the same heat from a Sunday
good night kiss. I opened my eyes for
her allure to take over the window:

IV.
she whispers:

“love, it’s time
to go back
to work.”

And I will always go back;

V.
I will always kiss her,
every inch of her

VI.
till the moon steals the show
tonight.

VII.
And that is why I call her
Queen.