Circle

The Tower of London

50 The Tower of London The ditch, the moat, the wharf, the turrets, the bastion, flocked by the ravens—Hardey, Thor, Odin, Gwyllum, Cerdric, Hugin, Murin, who ate from the Tower’s hand, who watched Jane in her gilded jaw circulate like a virus through narrow alleys, dingy, leprosy, plague, pox, where men only ventured in twos and threes with torches and short blades. Treason, adultery, incest, witchcraft. And Jane in her gemmed neck, nesting in the Tower, its stone floor pulsing like voltage. At ten in the morning, she watched from the window as her husband’s skull grazed against grout, rolling along the flagstone. Then the yakking yakking of the crowds to watch her untucking. She gave her gloves and handkerchief to her lady-in-waiting, removed her headdress and neckerchief, placed her head on the block. The barracks. The alliances. The stain. You cannot stop. We cannot stop pulling at the mast until the last sky falls. Hotel blast, car bomb, ground war, our will, their skull, grenades scooping cities, then gridding cities again, our better or butcher, pestle of powder, shovel, gun, the heads are still leaking out of us, rolling down the river like floating buckets bobbing in brilliance. ...