How did the cake taste? Be
done now with these
jewels, macaroons, waltzing tunes.
There is no more consolation
in a rose garden. It never belonged
to you, nor that head of yours.
Famous hair gathering in sheets and sheets:
silver glue sticking to your neck.
Slice.
>
You made it too easy for them.
Or was it their Louis?
They taught you it was yours:
deceived you in a silken dungeon,
the children were left to the
stinking streets, mildew growing
on their unused lips and tongues.
>
Robespierre gave you the last reality.
A new reign set in, sixteenth
Sun gone. The guillotine bares its teeth.
Your skirt’s embroidery unraveling.
No roses. No rococo. Pull the rope.
Ceciley Pund 
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