The Queen

The Queen Bee

“Well, well…
A political poet.”
—Cate Blanchett,
Queen Elizabeth

Who owns—The Virgin Queen? Death.
Who owns—My pretty little lips? Death.
Who owns—My Poet Laureates? Death.
Who owns—The English Language? Death.
Who owns—Ted Hughes’ barely still-wheezing lungs? Death.
Who owns—Sylvia’s Plath’s elegant oven? Death.
Who owns—Assia’s unspeakable bedroom desires? Death.
Who owns—Assia’s wicked little tongue? Death.
Who owns—The stony Mytholmroyd Man? Death
Who owns—Assia Weevil’s twisty legs? Death.
Who owns—Sylvia’s last moment on earth? Death
Who owns—Phillip Larkin’s dentures? Death.
Who owns—The Angler’s darting fly-cast trout? Death.
Who owns—The pistol’s oozing blue vapor? Death.
Who owns—The copyright to Love? Death.
Who owns—The bloody abattoir of Baghdad? Death.
Who owns—The slouching Beast of the Beltway? Death.
Who owns—Guantánamo Death Squads? Death.
Who owns—New American Depression? Death.
Who owns—The Wall Street Journal? Death.
Who owns—The New York Times? Death
Who owns—The Tower of London? Death.
Who owns—The Neocon American Empire? Death.
Who owns—Sylvia’s last gasp in Yeats’ kitchen? Death.
Who owns—Nicholas’ last words hanging in his closet? Death.