Queen of Hell (in progress)

Before I knew any more of him than a knee
On a pommel - blue breeches, well-worn, rasping my cheek
As I lay trussed like a leg of mutton across
His saddlebow - it was already in my mind. I
Saw the light ebb away from us as we descended
Further down into Hell, farther from my mother's fields
Of rye, where trees had branches not leaves, dizzied myself
Over the swirling muddy waters of Death's rivers.
It was beautiful, a scarecrow of a landscape -
I wanted to stay. What followed was no accident.

They brought the horses, blind and snorting like steam engines
Straight into the hall, their hooves striking up sparks on
The flinty pavement. Hands waited to catch me as
I slid off the saddle toward the floor. That's what it means
To be a queen - I never touched the ground. My new lord
Dismounted, lingered to give a few words of praise
To this man-at-arms, pat a foamy mare, take his
Stirrup cup from a compact woman with curly
Black hair and a conspirator's smile. From where I lay
Having my bonds cut open, I could only see
The back of his head: an iron bracken crown, crimping
Down knotted locks threaded with metal gray. No rosy
Adonis. An acquired taste perhaps. No matter.

Welcome to Hell, madame. Will you take some refreshment?
No thank you, not at this exact moment, my friend.

The servant who asked me this pulled me to my feet
Tsk tsking over my frock, which had certainly
Looked better that morning when I first put it on,
Not knowing that it was not the day for muslin.

We were scheduled to dance at a fertility fete
--As if that detail could distinguish one day from
Another… Mother couldn't say no to anyone;
What she needed was a secretary, who could have
Saved us bouts of eurythmics at supermarket
Openings. Anyway, we were frolicking on the
Sward of this blighted art-and-wine festival when
I noticed horsemen gathering behind the crowd,
A crescent of austere darkness, implied menace
Totally out of keeping with the children squealing
At the face painters and their mums buying souvenir
Stained glass plate trivets. Sweat stung in my eyes like tears
As we pretended to be willows sweeping our fronds
Into the current, pupae emerging from larvae,
Amorous trout flicking our chiffon-clad fins at
One another - fourteen girls, aged fifteen to eighteen.
In theory they were to leave the troupe at nineteen,
But we were never able to keep them that long.
I was twenty-five. I knew no other life but this.

I don't want to sound mean. I suppose it's always
This way with celebrity children - everyone's
Like, "Your mom, wow, the queen of fecundity," but
For me, it's just another day of germination,
Churning wombs and rhythmic gymnastics. But not this day.

The morris dancers were still strapping on their bells
When we came off; I had my radar scanning for
A beer and a handtowel, in that order, having
Completely forgotten Hell's outriders lowering
In like bad weather, when the men came stumbling in.
After being on horseback so long, they walked like
Drunks or old men, seasick on rusty joints and numb feet.
The festival director, a hyperthyroid girl
Named Marty, asked them what they wanted. The nearest
Pointed to me. I laughed, I swear to God I laughed.

Mom was outside sneaking a smoke. Patiently Marty
Said I'd be out in a sec, I'd be happy to sign
Some autographs after getting changed. I nodded
And smiled corroboratively, while inching toward
The bathroom, the wet dress clinging to me like a caul.
The nearest one, the pointer, saw me - his fist shot
Out and wrenched my head back by my hair. Before I could
Get my mouth open to scream, he had slapped a length
Of duct tape over my lips and hoisted me onto
His shoulder like a bag of mulch. Marty hollered
For security - as if that poor high school senior
Was equipped to handle twenty-three guys with halberds -
When the men closed ranks around my captor and me
And thrust through the canvas tent into the sunlight.

They moved fast, for people in armor - the man under
Me crunched along as steadily as a machine -
As if this was his Olympic sport, he'd been in
Training for years. Joggling backwards over his shoulder
I could see Mother had stubbed out her butt and stared
Round-eyed at our retreating forms. Marty came out
Too - when what you want is screaming, nothing beats thyroid.
But no one stepped up to stop us, it happened that fast.
People must have thought it was all part of the show.

The King had waited with the horses in the shade
Under a pine behind the baseball field. There was
A lot of quick tightening of straps and checking bridles -
More duct tape around my wrists and ankles, someone
Obligingly tying my hair up out of my face.
We had a lengthy ride ahead of us. A siren
Threaded into our hearing - faint, stronger, definite.
Time to get moving. Two lads slung me up into
My rapist's lap. Face down, I couldn't see anything
But ground and stony hooves, gobbling up miles and miles.

(To be continued)