I’ve seen the way you look at her across the room.

I’ve seen her raise her hand to touch her cheek; I’ve seen her blush.

I’ve seen those gray-green eyes, the skin below her neck, the undisguised surprise.

My dear, I know the signs.

I know your tendency will be to part to other quarters

while the deed is done, take pleasure in your lady’s love,

avoid.

Here’s what I require of you:

while my head is bleeding, take me by the hair.

Take me to that bowling green that you and I have often walked

and sprinkle me across the grass like Christmas.

Roll my head across the lawn until it hits each pin.

Pick me up then, by the mouth—your fingers that so often slid

between my lips, once more made moist.

Look. Look at this face. This face.

Imagine then the sword has simply done what I myself have thought to do—

you know, my dear, that she and I have long been friends.

You do remember?

I’ll dress for you, as always, in my red below the fur.

I hear there’ll be no coffin—you’re so kind—but just a box that once held arrows

like the ones you gave me, with the bow that made such sound.

Fitting, I suppose—only too small, so please

take care to place my head into my hands

once you are done.

Anne B to Henry 8

 

                                               I have heard that the executioner is very good.

                                               And I have a little neck.

                                                                                                 —Anne Boleyn