The Death of Mélusine

Your one day of the week
Is now every day of the week.
Once, you held each of your tales
aloft, daring to expose yourself,
your sex a deadly sort of awning.
It was the kind of sex a man might
strap himself to a mast to avoid,
though his body would writhe
against rope, feeling your voice
composed of honey and salt.
And your strange beauty
bore disfigured progeny,
leaving you singular.

Plantagenet progenitor,
whore for a caffeine empire,
mystical allure traded for chemical
addiction, your terrifying womanliness
plastered over, your complexity
expressed in the fewest of lines,
White Lady to white lady holding
some weird stuff and wearing
a crown, maybe a mermaid.
Maybe like Hans Christian
Andersen filtered through
the candied substrate
of the year 1989.

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