They serve revolving saucer eyes, <br />dishes of stars; they wait upon <br />huge lenses hung aloft to frame <br />the slow procession of the skies. <br /> <br />They calculate, adjust, record, <br />watch transists, measure distances. <br />They carry pocket telescopes <br />to spy through when they walk abroad. <br /> <br />Spectra possess their eyes; they face <br />upwards, alert for meteorites, <br />cherishing little glassy worlds: <br />receptacles for outer space. <br /> <br />But she, exile, expelled, ex-queen, <br />swishes among the men of science <br />waiting for cloudy skies, for nights <br />when constellations can't be seen. <br /> <br />She wears the rings he let her keep; <br />she walks as she was taught to walk <br />for his approval, years ago. <br />His bitter features taunt her sleep. <br /> <br />And so when these have laid aside <br />their telescopes, when lids are closed <br />between machine and sky, she seeks <br />terrestrial bodies to bestride. <br /> <br />She plucks this one or that among <br />the astronomers, and is become <br />his canopy, his occulation; <br />she sucks at earlobe, penis, tongue <br /> <br />mouthing the tubes of flesh; her hair <br />crackles, her eyes are comet-sparks. <br />She brings the distant briefly close <br />above his dreamy abstract stare.<br /><br />Fleur Adcock<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ex-queen-among-the-astronomers/
