Aubade for the Thirteenth Princess
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She swore that dancing all night was a curse
but there she was, twirling, glitter-and-bezel
charms on her wrists, her waist
sash swirling, fine gold filigree in motion –
said she was tired but –
oh, she didn’t look it, she glanced
for the next hand to swing her
round, to make the ballroom blur –
the light forever and ever in the darkest night
was not so dark now, the grey
like iron – then smoke – then soft wool
rising to meet the jewel of that house
lit from within – oh, dancing feet,
she was not tired, she was arriving
breathless at the break of day,
the night a cape flying behind her –
liftoff over rooftops,
chimney oil glittering in the cold,
frost unkept and cracking,
the white of the snow never really white, but
lilac, oyster grey, dove’s wing.
The dancing girl hurtling, leaving now,
to take first the night and then the morning
as one unwraps the orange:
fire in the hands, first the zest,
then the pith, then the gushing fruit,
drinking deeply the dark and then the sun –
the mist on the river rising to meet
her barely-there footsteps with those
pearl dewdrops trailing –
she: youngest daughter, insomniac royal who would not sleep,
who would not fall but would only somersault into enchantment,
who thought less about the prince and more about
how her feet knew that the night rhythms
could also be loved by the day.
Brilliant, she stepped onto the winter sun
and the whole world watched
as she claimed her place
in the rising blue and gold.
