Her soul was folklore
and her body was the shadow of alphabet
written backwards in secret code.
I will try to tell you a story:
how the lamp of her
arrived before she did, a ghost
among the masks and tapestries at market—
invisible tongue of quartz, hands like jellyfish,
mouth of inner shell. And how delicate the silver thread
that led back to the flesh-protected skull.
When she first showed up, they were
pouring the Lerma from a big jug
into cuts of land. They were stitching cities
on an old loom. She’d always known it
would take a country to decode her,
and as she removed the sutures of logic
and unbound the lyrics of her being,
she remembered it: Mexico,
the word she’d been dreaming all along.
The pain and the reverent beauty of it.
Beauty, because it radiated, everywhere.
Emanating from both the bride and the groom – more so from the bride.
She is given the title of Duchess yet she radiates the air of a Queen – Queen Meghan.
This air of royalty made all the more pungent by the attendance of Queen Serena.
Pain, because it burned in the souls of a particular people as a stifled scream.
Lost, again – the lost is not just of our Queens, but the lost those who would have been born with a union of their own.
Lost, a LeBron, lost, a Dr. Oyibo, a warrior, a genius.
Amongst the beauty, so apparent, there is the pain – not so apparent.
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