Queen

They didn’t crown me

with emeralds or pearls.

They pressed a daisy chain

onto my forehead—

roots still dripping

with the same red clay

that birthed me.

I was not chosen.

I rose.

From the hills

where the fog settles in like old grief,

where the wolves know my name

and howl it under the blue-moon

like a benediction.

I kneel only for gods

that speak in wind or thunder.

I’ve learned to speak in wildflower,

in whippoorwill,

in blood and in the crackle of embers.

My throne is a boulder

etched with the claw marks

of every demon I’ve bested.

My scepter?

A walking stick carved

from the spine of yesterday’s shame.

And when they ask

what makes a queen,

I just laugh

my mouth full of mountain,

hair tangled in briar and dusk.

I am the one who stayed

and bloomed anyway.

Participant's Poems