The kingdom goes through a period of unrest,

heirs dying and disappearing and abdicating,

the royal line slipping sideways

into wizened branches of cousins

no one’s ever heard of, shooting through

a twisted line of men and boys

who wilt under public scrutiny

before landing, finally, on a queen,

a slight young woman

who’s just graduated university.

 

It’s said she majored in botany.

What a silly degree, the people murmur,

but as the months pass, as it becomes

apparent this new monarch might actually

grow roots, the adjective shifts.

What a strange degree, they murmur,

as rumors spread about her private garden

tucked away in a secluded courtyard

behind a gate that only she holds the key to.

Here, it is whispered, she grows

all nature of deadly poisons hidden deep

within delicate blooms,

here she magicks up shrubs

with fairytale thorns amidst the leaves,

here there are feral tangles of vines and branches

so thick that they can squeeze a man to death.

It’s said that all her short-lived predecessors

were poisoned, that all the kingdom’s rivals

fear being asked to go on a private tour of the grounds.

 

Eventually, to put the rumors to rest,

the Queen invites the public to come view her garden.

It’s in the main courtyard, actually,

and she didn’t plant it herself—she’s kept too busy

with so many other, more important tasks—but she did design it,

and hopes the whole kingdom can appreciate its loveliness.

Crowds flock there, sighing with delight

at this marvel of colors and petals,

even as they murmur that it’s an awfully frivolous thing

for a queen to bother with.

 

The queen greets all these visitors,

and if they look closely

(though it’s rare that anyone does),

they may notice a bit of dirt

beneath her fingernails,

and a single deadly blossom in her hair

that can’t be found growing

anywhere in this sunny garden.

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