May Queen
Our treasures gathered in a rusty tin
a weakling four-leafed clover, necklace made
from stolen rowan berries, tiny spell
books stitched with strands of thread and my strange
nickname, made to rhyme with yours. It clicked me like
a Poppit bead into your family,
linked me in just like a lucky charm.
Two white dresses smocked across the chest,
your hair ragged to ringlets with a flock of
bows, mine trimmed plain. Sometimes we’d sit
among the raspberry canes, our mouths stuffed full
of fruit, our fingers stained. In spite of talismans
you died two springs from being May Queen,
and I turned back to suit my proper name
