My neighbor Cleo 

is the reincarnated Cleopatra. 

Do you believe me? 

Surely you believe me. Cleo 

possesses the same curly 

black hair, aquiline nose, 

and skin the same shade 

of a newborn dusk. 

Then there’s her week-old son! 

Alexander’s vine curls 

swirl like strawberry vines. 

He’s the heir-in-waiting

in Queen Cleo’s Kingdom 

on Chester Ave 

where suburban houses 

plop one after the other. 

At the curve of Chester and Payson, 

Cleo’s burgundy mansion 

sits in high sunshine glory. 

I’m right next door oh so close

to royalty. Whenever I hold a blink 

for a hundred heartbeats, I imagine 

Alexander swaddled in Cleo’s arms

as he swallows her breast milk 

white like white marble. I’ll be a mother 

by the next waxing crescent. 

If I must, I’ll borrow Alexander 

for a day or a week or a year. 

Once she pushed her stroller 

back home this morning, I spotted 

her approach and sprinted out past

my neighbor Berry eating a cranberry. 

“Greetings my Queen. Alexander 

is so gorgeous. I just want to eat him up 

like a ripe strawberry.” Queen Cleo spoke

in her monarch tongue, “I’m not your queen! 

I’m Cleo! Stay away from my son!” 

She sought to stress my loyalty 

as I threaded a sight on her jar

of saffron threads. “My Queen, 

where did you acquire your glorious saffron?” 

“Did you hear me? I’m not your queen! I’m Cleo! 

and I’m going to take a saffron bath 

to get away from you.” “Yes, Cleopatra 

enjoyed saffron soaks just like you.”

At dusk, I strut past my bedroom bookshelf

stuffed with Cleopatra books

to stand naked on bathroom tiles 

before saffron threads sprinkled on top 

of bathtub water. Yesterday, 

Doctor Baskind forced upon me 

a child of dead language: 

“you can’t conceive.” Now I’ll be reincarnated

a mother to-be 

when I submerge my womb 

into saffron’s crimson power.

Published in Monetized Happiness (American Poetry Systems, 2025)