The hen with its neck on the block
looks you in the eye,
The fish thrashing on the hook
does not want to die
but, Miranda, I…..
crimson floods the sky:
Caliban is back,
carrion on his stinking breath,
grinning in my face
pawing at your dress
reaching underneath…..
I who hoped for grace
know now it was hubris.
And I wait for death.
My staff, my magic spells, lie
under wave and rock:
I have renounced the authority
of mace and book
now I must look
at my fabricated word’s wrack
helplessly.