Ingeborg, Unclaimed

A marriage lasts a day, and 
The sepulcher descends,
To squelch every shred of 
Dowry-based desire,
Daughter of Denmark, be damned. 

Epochs pass and still, the courtiers
Gather in corners, holding crosses  
Tight enough to callous fingers, 
Trying to guess which piece of bone
Suffocated all chance of bliss.

Ingeborg! Lost in stone,
Unyielding fortress with bits of cloth,
An egg, a scrap of paper.
Queen or lady, devotee of a pope
Communicating her grief.

Reconciled and cast aside,
Cast aside and reconciled.
A barren waist with no markings
Except an imagined sign of 
Witchcraft across her sullen belly. 

Intransigent queen, peripheral mother,
All these names and no title,
Hatred of the lady or perhaps pity.
No portaits, no prose, just the 
Wall and wayward promise of the sons.

Ingeborg, outlived, outlasted.
More than a footnote. 
Present your shame as a millstone,
For the VIII and the IX,
Your persistence rewarded.