fraternus
in silver chainmail, she looks just like him.

twelve cocoons of camlet
cradle his tortoise-shell-handled knife,
quietly unassuming
within its butterfly house.

he wonders if his sister fares better,
masquerading as him in lands
far across the sea--
she always did love the prince
far better than he, after all.
fortune smiles down upon her,
he supposes, for in silver-shined chainmail,
she looks exactly like the prince's squire.

he never knew how to handle that broadsword,
(dear father's heirloom passed down
for six generations) but she,
she'd pressed a lifetime of silks and gowns
into his reluctant arms.
he's still not sure which fortune he prefers.

squires often slept in the same tents
as their noble masters, yet he
had never shared a tent with the prince;
it would, after all, prove unseemly.
he's grateful for this fact, now that she's away
unlacing the prince's hauberk
and polishing his gauntlets.

and so he endures
the leering grins of the king's chamberlain
and the furtive brushes of dance partners
against his non-existent cleavage.
when he stands in front of her inlaid mirror,
his only solace is the indifferent press
of an oft-honed blade
sheathed within his corset.