Execution

LISA ZOU

You tell us how in Antarctica,

the albatrosses we encounter

are the same unfastened oysters we see

hung on the walls of the Tudor museum.

A single bead grips the wallpaper.

I imagine a string of pearls by the blinding roads,

in the northern fields, even between the frozen castles.

Bleeding, they might be, these pearls—

pleading but persistent, confident of reputation

as they grow in Antarctica, in ice. As we

travel, I remember these Anne Boleyns;

I imagine their bold, firm flesh

enchanted by budding violets, and easily

can feel the flames at their center;

they are hasty, hasty with a new ambition—

new endings, and newborns. I can feel the beating

of the unorthodox heart, the jewels, the first

tastes of luxury. They know the inked

words and the silt crossings. I have seen such

Catherines, such Janes. You tell us how

in Antarctica, ancient lineages have yet

to be crumbled. There could be rebuilt

bridges, married cousins—the blood of

in-laws running colder than the weather.

They could be blossoming, ripening,

waiting for the explorer. They could also

be wilting, waiting for something more.

Some days, these pearls drown in the Pacifics

of the world. I remind you, I have seen these Annes—

what you call budding violets. Even their filaments are

brimming with secondhand purity. Even their petals

are spared the drops of propane. Still,

we do not understand this climb. We

know that fire and flesh describe more

than just color. We consider their genealogies—

how they twist and jostle, preserved in the icicles.

They were the second queens, and we called them

two. Too much intensity, you say, too much drive.