Goneril sits: consuming all the light,
Subsuming lines of sun into the bright

Glaze of twisted hair and newly flawless
Skin, a transformation habitually
Performed upon waking to an aweless
Audience of maids. She is ritually

Charged, standing in the presence of Regan,
The costume of her white dress against the
Contours of the day makes her look soft, wan.
I'm so happy she says and surrenders

Herself to the future. Outside her soon-
To-be husband paces, he looks handsome
Like this: young and earnest. It's almost noon.
She says it again, words sharp and rancid.