She keeps them in her cabinet of dreams,
that vanishing cabinet:
Staffs made of gleaming chestnut,
rough hewn elder,
luminous rowan to guide her in the nightwood.
Rings of gold from the queen's finger,
rubies and emeralds glistening
like bleeding heart in rain.
Keys corroded with the skin oil of centuries,
suddenly shining in the cougar's hand,
big as an eagle's talon,
waiting excitedly to be used,
to be inserted,
to be turned,
to wrench a cry of ecstasy from
the rusty lock.
Swords of iron,
sabers of copper,
sharper than malice,
catching the light.
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