blancwene: (That Boleyn girl - Elizabeth)
You feed me on crumbs
then forget the crumbs;
you are the bad master
of dogs left kenneled, waterless.
Your mind forgets
dates and places,
the sweet things dripped
like honey from your tongue,
but well remembers
your erotic fiefdom,
a Domesday tally of devastated
women, this one's breasts,
that one's desire for oranges,
another panting for the flat of your hand.
You will remember my lips
that lushly kissed you back to life,
or my long legs raised
above your silvered head,
but forget the shimmering
glass of my devotion,
reflecting what wasn't there.


--"Elaine the Fair Accuses Lancelot," Valerie Nieman

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It is always remarkable when someone sees your soul to a better degree than you see it yourself. You could count the people who see your soul on one hand. Others might know you but they would forget; their knowledge of you was like a weak and undisciplined thing. But that wasn’t so with him. He didn’t forget. It stuck in his mind. He had seen a kindred soul. He had seen it long ago. She only saw it now. But she was stricken with it. Suddenly she had identified him. There was the man she loved. As a result, she proceeded dementedly to behave as if the opposite were true.

–Nancy Lemann, The Fiery Pantheon

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