H hovers over the Queen of Hearts'
head, slides down her left arm
to hesitate at her haughty hips.
It mimics goal posts in her dreams,
through which hawks, hoopoes,
herons fly. H sings Hydrangea,
Hemlock, Hyssop and Heartsease
by the ha-ha, stands for harridan
and harpy – by which the Queen,

often more heart-broken than breaker,
is known. H for her hungry heart –
never humble, halting or harmonious.
H is for her hideous heartburn
for which she holds no one hostage,
the hellish pain easily confused
with a heart attack. She blames
heredity for this acidity.

H is for the Court’s hesitation
in excusing the Queen’s hula-hula
hedonism, the hush at twilight
when all the lonely hearts return
home, hoping for a better day.

She will morph into a lobster.
Someone will chop off her head.
Her uterus falls out during a coughing bout.
Men believe she’s a blow-up doll.
Her red fingernail polish chips.
A thief steals her crown jewels and tarts.
The maids poison her Pinot Noir.
Her subjects make her eat squirrels.
She might succumb to buboes.
Her hateful comments appear as headline news.
Someone will chop off her head again.
The left boob grows bigger, but it’s not cancer.
It is cancer. Nobody cares.