Sonnet 27 from The Dark Lady

by Jennifer Reeser

“I, sick withal, the help of bath desired…”

Scheherazade, reclining on a bolster
Of sand-washed, woven satins, kept awake
Her shah with yarns befitting to upholster
A pallet of the most discerning sheik.
The legends hint extenuated life
And glory she, by moonlight, sought—the tomb
More dire than the allegiance of a wife
To sick, disheartened rule. Don’t let’s presume.
To linger with her lord’s commanding diction
She could have bathed him in her tales—each tassle
Tinged with strange or scientific fiction—
One thousand and one more witching hours, gracile
And moving as a lunar phase among
The solar pulses of her master’s tongue.

 

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More of the Dark Lady series may be found online at:  findarticles.com  and Mezzocammin, and (forthcoming) in issue 6 of The Chimaera.