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Kristine Rae Anderson

 Richard III (1452-85), King of England 1483-85
Anne Neville (1456-85), Queen of England 1483-85
Their son, Edward, Prince of Wales 1473-84
  
Forget what you’ve heard. Dismiss it all 
except that Richard could charm the blue from the sky
and wanted, yes, to be king.
Forget Shakespeare’s gift of limp and hump.
Richard stood right, finely formed. I ached
to touch him. I, no victim, chose him,
even as children together among potent green hills,
miles and miles, the undependable spring sun,
and old stone of Warwick Castle. Even then
I wanted him. Only the State—cold spinster—
had me as Edward’s wife, Henry’s daughter. 
But England needed Richard. I needed him—
his voice filling a room gently, his generous touch
the way a child explores a wondrous thing—
a son such insufficient proof of us.
Forget the myth of my murder. We two died a little
with our son: three hearts, then none.
At times Richard believed and at times he fought
and I came to know these as one and the same.
Forget the insults of history, what you’ve heard
about his body. His ambition. My frailty. 
I, his cousin, his wife. The woman
he made widow and orphan then queen. I know:
Put you in my woman’s skin and feed you on my woman’s blood
in the empty hallways of my seasons, in my hard, gray rooms,
in my deep blue nights of life and dreaming,
you too, with all your free will,
would give, would take
exactly this much.
__________________________________________________________________________

Kristine Rae Anderson’s poetry has appeared in Soundings East, ReedCrab Creek Review, and Copperfield Review, among other publications. An award-winning journalist (first place award in criticism from the Society of Professional Journalists, San Diego Chapter, and award for arts story from the San Diego Press Club) and award-winning poet (Tomales Bay Fellowship, Fishtrap Fellowship, and first place in Southern Indiana Review’s Mary C. Mohr Poetry Contest), she teaches English at Norco College in southern California.

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Kristine Rae Anderson

Amelia Earhart Standing on the Roof of the Mission Inn

Riverside, California, March 1, 1936

 

“From a vantage spot high above the parapets”

–handwritten photo caption

 

Several floors above the ground, she stands appraising rows of orchards

                                                at the altitude of her comfort.

She knows sky: blowing fringe of treetops and solid, sloping housetops,

                                                how desire can lift one up.

Feet anchored on shingles, one hand resting on an ornate lantern

                                                hanging eye-level,

she views the valley, then beyond, toward, as the caption says,

                                                “distant snow-covered mountains.”

She’s thirty-eight, looking out from “a vantage spot”—

                                                  thinking what?

“I have a feeling,” she would say the next year, “that there is just about

                                                  one more good flight left in my system . . . .”

 

Another first: she—a woman—will pilot around the globe.  From Oakland to Oakland,

                                                   eastward.

She leaves late spring. On July 2, 1937, sailing above the Pacific, navigating clouds,

                                                 visibility limited.

Below, miles and miles of open-mouthed ocean.  Down there, somewhere, Howland Island,

                                                  tiny dot of land—her vital fuel.

“We are running north and south,” she reports to the coast guard ship Itasca.  8:45 a.m.

                                                  After, the crackling radio, silent.

What does she sense in those last dear minutes? Maybe she looks for a way;

                                                there’s always been a way, a rent in fate to slip through.

She’s glided over continents and seas, covered most of the world from heaven,

                                                vantage spots tenuous and rare.

Only seven thousand miles from success, only three weeks and a day from turning forty.

                                                Her engine stops.

In the air’s embrace, she always knew: she could lose. Now, here, from high above,

                                                heavy with gravity, falling.

_____________________________________________________________

Kristine Rae Anderson’s poetry has appeared in Soundings East, ReedCrab Creek Review, and the anthology Active Voices IV, among other publications. An award-winning journalist (first place award in criticism from the Society of Professional Journalists, San Diego Chapter, and  award for arts story from the San Diego Press Club) and award-winning poet (Tomales Bay Fellowship, Fishtrap Fellowship, and first place in Southern Indiana Review’s Mary C. Mohr Poetry Contest), she teaches English at Norco College in southern California.

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