Après La Révolution
After the revolution we
became the aristos.
I fell in love with a
prince of the butterscotch castle
but I could never get past
the guillotine in his head, the wolf
hissing in his flock of noise,
the glitter-ship in his bottle
waiting each day to sail him away.
All the devils of summer
came to our parties, flashing
their ruby eyes in the dark, stealing
my stockings, hiding the postman,
eating the silverware. I made a centerpiece
from applecores, black horns and tail-spikes
and called it art diabolique.
When the winter night
finally flapped its starstained carpet
over the horizon, its patterns worn
and indistinct as we were, all
the stardust beaten out of us, I knew
we wouldn't make it to the end,
or even to France.
La révolution est morte.
Vive la révolution.
March 2022
posted for
Shay's Word List #17
Images: Study for the Spanish Dance, 1879, © John Singer Sargent Fair Use
Charlotte Corday, 1860, ©Paul-Jacques-Aimé Baudry Fair Use
