Poetry by Madelyn Whelan

undress    yourself    as the guards watch    their sneers caught by the light
wandering eyes    rolling pairs of dice    along your skin
prison bars    casting shadowy gashes    on their faces
a black dress    is what you want    to die in

but you are forced to wear a white one    as that is what widowed queens
in France wear    nothing feels like you anymore    nothing is yours now
maybe it never was    choice just an illusion    dangled before the gilded cage
that is your birthright    your son    molded into a tool    filled with venom
by those            who hate you

your        husband        dead

hands bound    behind the back    tugged on a rope leash    like a dog
hair shorn    the cart that takes you to your death    is open
to the insults of the crowd    lobbed like stones    you fix your gaze forward
ignore the priest    they have sat beside you    for he sees no issue in this
the words are ugly    turn your stomach    but you remain firm

as you step    up    to the guillotine    you step on
your executioner’s shoe        your last words.
pardonnez-moi monsieur    je ne l’ai pas fait exprès

you are knocked down    forced to kneel    the roaring of the crowd builds
so much flashes in your mind    it might burst before being cut off
your children  the rope and pulleys begin to raise  they are rabid for your blood
your husband    at the swaying faces of the crowd    your siblings
you try not to look at the basket        knowing in a moment
like a picked fruit    your head will be dropped into it    maybe you
will see your sister    when you go    has    she been waiting
the blade glints    and