—Henry VIII, on meeting Anne of Cleves in 1540

The ladies like gossiping
in the mornings, as they pull my stays
tight, teaching me the English words they believe
a queen ought to know. Today’s phrase
is shit list, as in Cromwell’s on the shit list.
I don’t ask how bad; they do things
differently here. So I practice pronouncing
shit and list, which together sound a bit
like inconvenient in German. The women have
moved on; yesterday, the royal master
of horse put down three new stallions
that arrived lame. Someone’s going to be
in trouble. I think about those big equine
bodies, how they must’ve disposed
of the flesh. Every sunrise, my husband
still says, Farewell, my darling. I pretend
I don’t understand the whispers
that he’s complaining. My breasts.
My thighs. Evil
smells. When a king demands everything
to perfection, who will first suggest looking
at the possibilities in a shining blade? Or,
to put it another way, what is least
inconvenient, when you turn
an animal into its opposite?