Joan of England in Bordeaux, 1348

^{Daughter of Edward III, Joan of England, traveled during the Black Death to meet her fiancée, Peter of Castille.}

What name will he call her when they meet
in her embroidered skirts of silk and velvet?
It’s all that she can bear to wonder,
trapped on board this docked ship

in her embroidered skirts of silk and velvet,
fingering her betrothed’s enamel face.
Trapped on board this docked ship,
sea light ripples through the window,

fingering her betrothed’s enamel face.
No one’s come to greet her.
Sea light ripples through the window
and she is alone. She is never alone.

No one’s come to greet her,
neither courtier, supplicant, nor priest.
She is alone. She is never alone.
The sky outside is thick with smoke.

Where is the courtier, supplicant, or priest
to lead her to the prince her father promised?
The sky is thick with smoke
swirling in knots: a labyrinth of black roses

leading to the prince her father promised.
Her father, who laughed at her love of beauty—
her knotted silks, labyrinth of roses—
In his world, love means power;

he laughed at her love of beauty.
But now, outside, masked figures scurry
and she sees the only power left to her is beauty.
A hard knot rises at her throat.

Outside, masked figures scurry
as a scythe of birds swings over the road.
A hard knot rises at her throat.
This isn’t the kingdom she was promised,

its scythe of birds swinging over the road,
where the sea air smells of rotting roses,
ash from a kingdom she wasn’t promised.
Cold light tongues her betrothed’s face.

The sea air smells of ash and roses.
She’ll ride out soon to meet her husband,
cold light tonguing her face—
No world lasts forever. And she won’t live

without riding out to meet her husband,
smiling as his pale hands reach for her.
No world lasts forever. And she won’t live
a moment longer upon this cold, unmoving sea.

She smiles as pale hands reach for her.
What name will he call her when they meet
far from this cold, unmoving sea?
What dark road will they ride together?
It’s all that she can bear to wonder.

Copyright © 2024 by Paisley Rekdal. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 15, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

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“I wrote a draft of this pantoum in early 2020 when everyone was in lockdown. I’m not someone who can write quickly about events I’ve immediately experienced, but I wanted to capture the dread, uncertainty, and claustrophobia that so many of us were feeling. I also wanted to write about the fear of realizing [that] the world you once knew is forever changed. It’s a reality many people have faced and continue to face; and going back to history to express these ideas made me feel, strangely, more connected to everyone.”
—Paisley Rekdal