Watching the reports of Queen Elizabeth’s funeral today, I recalled my early admiration of her, expressed in this poem from my chapbook, Transported.
Tales of moats and castles frame
my picture of a king. The Queen
is a prim lady in a trim suit, matching hat.
Alice’s nemesis is dwarfed
by the real, living Elizabeth,
her patient smile akin to my mother’s,
her age-mate, name-sharer. A child,
I hold these two in equal honor.
My mongrel American family
choosing its tradition, links “English”
and “proper,” visits the Cotswolds,
Cambridge, and Windsor Castle,
where neither the Queen nor I can play
with the regal, cased-in-plastic doll house
made for her grandmother, Mary.