"Now I tie your hands behind your back with the bridal train
because I loathe your embrace. Now I tear apart the bridal gown. Now you must scream. Now I smear the rags of your dress into the earth which my father has become with the rags your face your belly your breasts. Now I take thee my mother in his, my father’s invisible trace. I strangle your cry with my lips. Do you recognize the fruit of your flesh
now go, go to your wedding, whore, broad in the Danish sun shining on the living and the dead. I want to stuff the corpse in the drainhole so the palace drowns in kingly shit. Then let me eat your heart, Ophelia, which sheds my tears."

Heiner Muller, from Die Hamletmaschine, 


I was the name of nothing and I moved like a god

with my tongue. I was everything to everyone

and I sat on my stoop with my hands on my crown.


Anne Marie Rooney, from “The year of waiting on rooves for August to end,” published in Gigantic Sequins 


I thought you would April me:
turn this heap of broken images
into a shrine for heavenly spheres
take the wind and carve it round my hair
rustling sweet nothing to the roots.
I thought you would thaw me into a stronger hold
like when gold flows into gold
from the butt ends of your eyes
to ash between my toes.

But feathers broke
(never strong enough to hold)
and I plunged into April
alone but absolved.