to you, my sweet assassin
I bequeathe
my bouquet of umbrellas,
my truffle oil, argan shampoo, tulle skirts
and sighs and heaves.
Anne of Cleves
kept her unlovely head;
Anne Boleyn
was less fortunate.
a lily grows from mud
even though her neck is the dimension
of a hearty tree trunk
I expect nothing
and I forgive.
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