Frivolous princess, blasé queen—
in the Hall of Mirrors she pauses,
unsure which reflection is herself:
rose-bitten lips, crown gnawing her scalp,
diamonds clawing at her throat.
Her satin-slippered foot pierces
a gold-trimmed membrane—
a plunge in the lungs, and
then the mise-en-scène morphs:
Versailles in ruin, pearl walls lit aflame.
She finds herself in a cage of spines,
its bars wet with noble blood,
the chant of her name
a guttural knell in the skull:
the revolution craves justice.
The urge to be a lady enthralls—
she obeys. She marches to La Marseillaise,
the queen in royal rags, maker of her own danse macabre,
surrendering her neck to the
guillotine’s swift swoop.
It transpires in a sliver of silence,
the queen’s demise by a surgeon’s blade,
her bonbon-eyes protruding,
eggshell-cheeks smeared with a red
more virulent than any rouge.

