England

I am Abel.
And my brother, Abel,
And I
Are dead and lie here in
The floor of the Tower.

Our bones, white,
Do not remember
What happened
And tell no one.
What happened?

Our brother did not kill us
And yet
(Oh! my brother)
He murdered our poor lonesome
Bodies together.

Our bones they
Lie lonely, lost
Lilies leading
Long, long
What happened?

My blood does not cry out
From the earth
It bled
And dried
Long ago.
Just bones
That might be mine
That might be my brother’s
Lie here
On the floor of the Tower.

aiee

Our little house cannot sustain this,

And all the little drawers and rooms in protest

Have tumbled out their contents on the floor.