On Bianca
Angel of yellow hair and fairest skin
Bestow the devil’s curse upon my fate,
Your foot in the door so I'll never win,
For one day when I brush my hair, abate.
Wretched is the day in which you marry,
I to dance below your wedded feet,
Standing on an open grave, warily
That I might burst the subliminal sweet.
Don't tell me this is only in my head;
I hear our neighbors whisper when I leave,
Wishing you would keep me here for dead,
My docility finally retrieved.
I am not who you pray to God for dearly;
All I am is woman, cavalierly.