Queen of the Prairie

By Nicole Cater

She sat lonely,
spread out on the ground.
Her home was far
but not too far,
a speck in the distance.
Close enough to see,
far enough to forget.
The summer sun
was baking the grass,
turning spots to yellow.
The grass didn’t matter.
It was of no consequence.
She was here for the sun
and the pink cloud-like flowers.
She hated the house.
For even when it was stifling,
his presence made it ice cold.
So far from the prison of its walls
she was free to soak up the warmth
and the sun was generous.
She called the flowers pink clouds
For that is what they resembled.
Their true name was
Queen of the Prairie.
As she slowly picked
the best blossoms,
Intertwined them into a crown,
Secured them under
the bands of her pigtails
and wore them round
her neck and wrists,
that became her name too:
Queen of the Prairie.
For here she was queen
and she ruled all she saw,
except for the speck of the house.
He ruled that. 
He would always rule that.
She was no baby, no sniveling brat.
But she had not yet reached
her magical teen years.
Her sister had reached those teen years.
They used to be
Queens of the Prairie together,
back when they shared the same secret.
She supposed they still shared the secret.
But only she was the
Queen of the Prairie now.
Her sister became too old, too lucky,
Too busy at forgetting,
at putting it all away,
locked in a mental box
with a hidden key.
Occasionally she found the key,
opened the box.
She urged patience, perseverance.
The Queen of the Prairie would grow,
she would grow too old,
she would not be of interest.
And then she would have
her own mental box.
She could hide the key
or even destroy it altogether.
But not yet,
not just yet for the
Queen of the Prairie,
for she could hear him call to her,
bellowing across the formidable distance;
ruining her patch of sun,
turning her veins to ice.
She removed her pink cloud flowers.
Those were hers alone,
her special secret.
She was still too young,
so he could taint her body.
But no one could taint
the Queen of the Prairie.