High Hopes

The monarch brushing her hair brushes

aside the doubts,

incessantly impeding her crowning. Crowned,

by excellency.

An embrace’s braces routinely shoring one up

for a fall, or winter, or the

Sun’s expeditious au revoir. Cherished,

by the minute.

When She adored us more, your head She’d kiss

like clockwork—

While He perfected his vision, your wrists He’d cuff

like reverence—

Before heading down the horizon to rest, they both

seemed so grounded. Meanwhile

the slip-up

you didn’t foresee,

what a relief

that putty doesn’t

shatter irreparably.

We are not glass castles; neither are you.

by Jordan