COURT LADY IN BLUE

My sisters rest their lotus petals
on silk and thread, sewing and humming,
sewing and humming the Emperor’s favorite songs,
while I, alone and folded,
fan the flames of the irons, a wilting peony, my face melting
onto the sky of my robes, remembering only my election and my duty.
I miss the horses.
I miss the ink and scrolls.
I miss the music.
See how they whisper? See the young maid
helping, hiding from the scalding-scolding?
While I turn my face from Her Pinkness,
then back,
then away again.
In my heart I cannot bear (that I love) to watch more burnings…
Lilies lining the palace gardens, we devoted and delicate
draw around to be plucked and vased in his own good time.
There is no other story for me to tell. We
have it in the stars to believe—
wait—
think we want—and own
ourselves no longer.
The dragon claimed us his before we were ever born.
I in all my knowledge know this:



The Bombyx moth lays around 500 eggs in 4 to 6 days, then dies, having completed the job it was meant to do.
I will never have children—so will I never die.
It takes approximately 30,000 worms to produce 12 pounds of raw silk.
And eleven court ladies and one maid.
The filaments from between 4 and 8 cocoons are twisted together to make 1 silk thread that can be as long as 1,600 yards.
A single thread, however long, will never be enough to warm your frozen body.

I know we are cruel to the worms, beating a pole to
the pulp of their bodies long after they are naked and dead,
only because we know them soundly and love them intimately—
our beauty only en masse
and our favored exploitation.

Burn steady, fire constant.