Sir Thomas More

by Allison McVety

Afterwards, parboiled,
pale as full moon’s wane,
the head is hauled from the pike,
fetched from the bridge
to the daughter’s door, its innocent
beard still hoared with the souse
and dredge of the tides. His raw
profile mackled on hers, she a heft
of him. In a reservatory she stores
nutmeg, ginger, cloves, preserves
the head against winter, records
him indelibly, on the window’s ledge.