The Yerl o Buckingham Wauks on the Saubath
—for Elizabeth Rose Shaffer
A souch lances the hingers apen,
drowes the coonter-pane in deleerin
licht like watter till the bed is bitch-fou.
But James his bruised body is awready
taen doun—the hivy, snackerin
heid whit weir’s the croun. God,
thinks Steenie, hou he lues a play!
And juist like that, he’s back
in thair box at the Globe, feelin James
his fingers aw atween his ain,
prayin tae Venus that James shud pray
tae Diana, and listin tae whimpers o haithenry
in the bauks. The chaipel bells jowe,
and again it’s Sunday mornin. The king
is lown, and the yerl lays his haund
tae a nakit shouder, maks boun tae rowst him
for Communion, but his een faw on the quate
lips whit spak three day syne
in Privy Cooncil: “A lue the Yerl
o Buckingham, and A wiss tae speak and no
hae it thocht a defect, for Jesus Christ
daed the same, and A canna be blamed.
Christ haed John, and A hae George.”
Again, the bells of the chaipel jowe.
The licht stummles throu the windae wine-
stained, and Steenie’s hert is fou.
He presses a kiss tae James his bree,
his chowk, his breest, his side, his apen
wounds. George taks the body o Christ
on his tongue, taks Communion in baith kinds.
Rozalija Grace, U.E., is a Roushie Canadian makar and translator wi Franco-Ontarian and Roushie American ruits. Warkin in and athwart Inglis, Scots, French, and Roushie, she haes seen her poyums, short stories, and essays nominate for the Pushcart Prize and preentit in Room, Rust & Moth, So to Speak, and ither periodicals. Her translations o early Soviet poyums hae been nominate for Best Literary Translations. She sers as a poetry eeditor for Psaltery & Lyre and bides in the Pays-d’en-Haut as the fiancée o a great American novelist. Ye can read mair at her wabsite and on Bluesky.