Versailles

Back into the crowd:

their mottled faces. Bright lights.

Shadows cast by mismatched houses.

Ears to the ground.

I have a red, fever-cloud memory

of tipping my head up

to see you -

leaning so far out of the window

                                                           the tips of your toes

                                                                                                skimmed the carpet.

The soft space beneath your jaw 

Dripped with sweat.

My knees trembled and sank.

Your skin caught only the brightest rays.

All that light.

All that lacy clockwork.

Who do you think surrendered here?

When did your face begin appearing on banknotes

and stamps?