by Laura LeHew
I see the queen in her cups—
eight swords restricted
by a wolf moon.
I see Lust’s first blush
flesh on flesh on flesh
thrumming to be unbound.
I see the queen stand unbridled
a westerly wind
in opposition.
I see an innocent woman,
a man, a boy, from Tulsa,
destroyed.
The hanged man in anger.
The death.
I see the danger.