A crown pushed down on my head, 
my own sword pressed my shoulders, 
“Kiss me, your Majesty,” 
How could I but obey? 
I cross myself when I see her stretched 
across our bed, with the smell of a friend 
clinging to her hair, my fingerprints 
reflecting on the gold she wears, 
and I remember it, 
even from the secret berm 
where I await; they say I will return, 
and when I do, I will feel her hands 
resting on my hair again, 
the only crown I ever wanted to wear. 

By Heidi Turner