When Marie Antoinette was a shepherdess,
she'd flaunt her legs in peasant clothes, work
paths around the orchards and the cows.
The Queen's Hamlet was a real farm,
with peasants bought to work the land
and cows cleaned and kept for the sweetest milk.
How, as her neck met blade, her thoughts
must have flashed to that place, burned
and hen-less, no longer waiting for her flounce
and step, like so many man-made truths.
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