By Michaela Mayer
hands clamoring for my throat
then the blade’s sharp descent—
it was not intentional, neither
the toes nor the people, that they
should starve or be stepped upon
by my little leather slipper, but
they will say what they will
say. pay attention, monsieur:
another killing hour hums
a lilting tune in ears made ready
for revolution. yet you will not
listen. this is the difference
between us: you know what you do,
and i was an eleventh daughter
before smallpox pitted
my sister’s hold on the throne—
my life a symbol
more than anything, yours
an unkindness in motion—
mark me, monsieur, it doesn’t
end well. i tell you more for the sake
of your people than you,
but i fear it more useless
than my many powdered wigs.
do you recognize me now? yes,
you see, your ears are stopped:
what could a woman tell you,
and one from so long ago?
well then, we shall see what dark
mirror i hold up to you, how
they stream in to sever
that pendulum of indifference
from your feckless neck.
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Michaela Mayer is a 26-year-old poet and educator from Virginia. Her works have previously appeared in Claw & Blossom, Perhappened, Q/A Poetry, Barren Magazine, Feral Poetry, Olit, and others. She has a forthcoming poem with Monstering Mag and can be found on Twitter @mswannmayer5.
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