Your Majesty

(Salve Regina)

You sit enthroned in burgundy,
Queen Mother to the angels.
A dog walks in.
“Yes, I can talk”
and you talk, compulsively
about God and evil, yin and yang,
motive and cynicism,
and spirituality tendered by adversity.

You are Queen:
Happy regent to the entire horizon.
Will the good dog go to hell?
Here’s an argument:
He is loyal.
In limbo, his wagging tail
will amuse wandering philosophers
indifferent to uncertainty.

You were born gracious, pure and noble
everything a queen should be.
You converse with a dog
because you are obliged
because he is a novel breed
because his nature is to please
and to need
and you, God save you,
you are Queen.

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