so this night, I set stars heavy on my brow
and paint my lips with ash
a courting ritual, a lady’s rite—
my warpaint is the lean of my hips,
my sword, the word of gods in my mouth.
yea, I will rule thee
like the sea of my birth
and the snows of my forests,
and you will think it is you who are king.
my warpaint is the curve of my throat,
my sword, the feather-touch of fingers.
do not think that I will hesitate
to take what is divine right.
the splendor,
the agony,
the death
is mine.