Apparently, she said ‘brioche!’
An old one which I found while clearing out, prior to my house
Queen’s Bedchamber, Versailles
(Photo: Creative Commons Attribution- Share Alike)
You laid your head on cushions embroidered
with heartsease, roses and eyed peacock plumes.
An eagle resplendent over your bed,
its outstretched gullet menacing the room
was ostrich feather crowned. L’Autrichienne,
you primped and preened before the tarnished pier.
Brioche? Cake? Bread? Cela ne fait rien.
You never expected that you would hear
a distant drumbeat of insurrection.
Shaven, you were in it up to your neck.
No one admired your pale throat’s reflection-
your bolster exchanged for a wooden block.
No shepherdesses attended your beck
and peahen call- for you had lost your flock.
Those below, sheep without a good shepherd
bleated egalite, fraternite,
imagining they’d purge l’etat of merde,
as you bowed out to face eternity.