The second of Clare's poems. -- Gabriel

Seven years old, not yet bleeding,
and already more beautiful than I.
What unknown power will come into you
when you are a woman, grown and ripe?
I must call my huntsman, bid him bring me
your lungs and liver
(breath and blood).

And perhaps when you are gone,
no longer a distraction or a man’s lust,
the king and I may turn
our looks to one another and beget a son.

You run from me, but I know the vanity of women,
the laces and the comb; I know the uses
of my own red lips and white skin.
And when my son is born, my husband
with an heir and satisfied, I may have an apple
for him.