E
ammazzato!
God will hold the crown.
Hold Paris, Lord. Save each remoter town,
o
bring my master gilded lilies torn
From Mary's bosom; he has felt the thorn.
They come, they come: the Virgin bucking rams,
The Faggot Maid, the wolf who suckles lambs.
While hosts of Vergils hymned the golden year,
Ravaillac's dagger struck the royal steer.
Ring, ring, tired bells, the King of France
is
dead.
Who'll give the lover of the land a bed?
My Bull of Bashan! Shall I make you leave
Your carnal genuflections to receive
Unforced confessions? Sire, I serve and mind
And suffer here, so far from humankind,
You must not question how your servants die,
Nor curse the gods, if for a moment I
Abandon protocol to hold your fort,
Till reinvestment by the king and court . . .
o
cozy scuffles, soft obscenities,
Wardrobes that dragged exchequers to my knees,
Cables of pearls, and crazy lutes strung tight–
o
tension, nerve and backbone, Sire! And night
Remembers how your queen embroidered lies
That stripped the royal purse. I said your eyes
Flew kiting to my dormer from the blue.
I was a sparrow. You were fifty-two.
And now the Dauphin! Sterile, small and dry,
Is he the apple of a mother's eye?
Look, the hazed monarch hobbles home from school:
I fold his pillow, plop him on a stool.
Will prattle dearer to me than my own
Deafen the Queen's dictation from the throne?
I speak in season. Nor am I released
From motherhood, and free to call the priest,
Who'll hugger-mugger France in holy orders
Each time the Dutch or Spaniard clip our borders.
It's on approval- Jesuits, you fill
The cup of kings; confusion serves my will.
