Margaret Allyson enjoyed a long career in publishing and is now happy to sleep late, work in the garden, faff around with textiles, play with food, and generally have a fine old time. She’s written books (nonfiction), songs (some pretty good), poems, and countless magazine articles. Margaret is basically a decent human being, and she’s glad to be here.
In the Court of Henry VIII
The king is fat. His leg is rotten.
Wolsey and Cromwell — last voices of reason —
lie moldering. Still the hunt goes on.
Boleyns whored out their daughters.
Seemed like a good plan at the time;
it’s all played out.
The families scuttle in alcoves
and the king demands another wife.
Trust erodes. Who fawned now falls.
Heads fall as well.
His castles crumble, he eats up praise.
And we are all afraid.
As soon as his wife
got out of the truck,
he flew all over Lee Ann.
like they all are in August,
flickering in and out
When Lee Ann remembered it later,
that minute shimmered
like when you climb out of the water
and everything you see is blurred.