I’m not sure what to do about that scorpion twitching on the wall
Maybe I should slam it with this book of terrible poetry
or just read aloud to it until it dies of a histrionic metaphor
bleeding out on the ancient stones in a five-octave aria
If I get a little drunker I might try to murder it with my sandal
I gave up on mercy a while ago
That’s what happens when you live in a castle on an artist’s grant
You look at the late-afternoon Umbrian light smearing itself over the tomato vines
& feel entitled—like an underage duchess whose husband has finally died of gout
leaving her free for more secret liaisons with the court musician
She might even have poisoned the duke, the lecherous shit
It’s hard to remember what life was like before this
& I don’t want to, I want to stay here & poison the king next
I want to be a feared & beloved queen ordering up fresh linens & beheadings
locking up bad poets in their artisanal hair shirts
torturing academics with pornographic marionette performances
Meanwhile the scorpion is still there twitching slightly
reciting something about violence & the prison of ego
& I can hear the clashing armies on the wide lawn outside
sinking down into history & then standing up again
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Excerpted from Now We’re Getting Somewhere. Used with the permission of the publisher, W. W. Norton & Company. Copyright © 2021 by Kim Addonizio.
