The
first son, upon waking,
Immediately
coughed, spraying
Drops
of blood along a satin robe.
He
began to fret, red face turning
quickly
to the palest white.
Not
a promising entrance, but it
Saved
an Italian mother from exile.
A
spindly fellow, skinny neck,
And
delicately spotted legs
Filling
out the rest of his body.
They
gave him a hearty wife with
All
the flesh his torso lacked, but
He
could not make his tired limbs
Endure
the long wedding night.
His
mother hovered, melting into
The
wall with her black drapery.
Docile
to a fault, but with eyes
That
lapped up every sad detail.
Poor
Francis, the first blight.
First
symptom of the spreading,
Malignant
tumor of Valois.
He
attempted, mutely, to survive.
Young,
unfulfilled wife slept silently,
Storing
her fruit in a hungry womb.
Like
her, the mother could not
Force
the son to clear all blood
From
his lungs or stay inside,
Guarded
from the coming rain.
The
mother had other sons,
The
wife had other domains and
An
appointment with the axe.
Poor
Francis, jumped outside to
Breathe
in the sturdy air but
It
took him instead, and lay siege
To
his flailing, weak organs.
Farewell,
Francis, the underwhelming.
Enter
Charles IX.
Before
Charles popped out of yoke,
Never
to leave absolutely, to his own regret,
There
came Elisabeth, the lost, the Spanish.
Sold
to a man who had a natural talent
For
outliving his wives and sons.
His
temperament, though perhaps not unkind,
Too
much for the fragile daughter.
She
tried, she tried, but only gave out those
Cursed
daughters that had so doomed
The
queen of England’s mother.
But
alas, not so lucky children
As
that accidental, heretical heroine.
Elisabeth
escaped the massacres, and the
Bloody
wedding of her sister,
But
not the trauma of those girls,
Or
their heavy burden on her body.
Elisabeth
gone, unimpressive.
The
second sister inherited her mother’s
Ungainly
looks without her cunning.
Most
beloved as a daughter, but
Married
off quickly, before her
Heart
hardened, and blood spilled out.
Kind
Claude, they say,
Dragging
her foot from place to place.
She
provided those precious boys,
One
after the other, girls in between,
But
it did not save her from the same
Grisly,
unimaginative fate as her sister,
Or
later, her sister’s replacement.
Claude,
who had less sickness and greed
Than
all the damned Valois brothers.
Charles,
the first spare, headed
Into
the throne room, still dreaming
Of
his wet nurse’s soft hands.
Charles
IX, but with the same
Mother
breathing down his neck,
Ready
to drain out his fluids.
She
signs his name and takes his crown,
Willing
it to murder men and soldiers.
He
begins to feel weak, secondary.
Violence
calls out, arching itself forward
To
leak out his mouth, to find its way
To
fund a mad dash towards infamy.
An
alternate path and new regent,
Would
perhaps lead Charles to sanity,
Or
at least an exchange of guilt for
Quiet,
scornful incompetence.
Instead
he raves, he signs, he
Beats
his sister to hide fear.
Like
Francis, death already lurking.
Lungs
begin to object to their state
Of
breathing. Legs begin to falter.
The
mother waits, not unwilling, for
A
second spare waits in a foreign land.
She
has two more chances, and this
Obstinate,
careless king has served his
Turn,
and now must move over.
He
obeys, with choked words and a
Heady
fear for the fate of family.
Dying,
dying, coughing, crying,
Giving
way to Henri the Cruel.
Some
called him Henri the favorite,
The
loved and amorously pursued.
Mother
ignored his bedroom antics,
Handsome
men spilling out his closets,
Swept
up in his furs and cloaks.
He
hid from both sides of his kingdom-
And
wavered back and forth from choosing
A
side, or a sister, or even a brother.
Not
meant for royal dignity, but purely a
Product
of royal intrigue.
Plots
and schemes took the place of grain,
Of
feeding peasants their cake and bread.
Henri,
who so loved his bed, his clothes,
The
endless parade of pageantry.
He
calmly waited for the knife’s edge.
Married
to the assassin, but wedded to
An
underwhelmed princess.
Rumors
persist about Henri-but the
Truth
slid down his organs, and
Coagulated
in his knife wound.
Not
last born, but last to rule,
Stunting
his sad lineage.
The
most hated child, Marguerite,
Came
after this narcissist.
A
princess, who alone in her family
Could
breathe deep, could go riding
Without
a fear for expiration.
Lovely,
romantic, waiting for a prince,
But
given only a short, blocky man
With
the wrong religion.
Destined
to live while her brothers
Choked
to death around her.
They
beat her flesh to form a marriage,
Left
her amidst all the happy mistresses,
Who
let the king fill their bellies.
Marguerite,
in prison, reformed,
Separated
from her lovers.
Then
welcomed back to court,
With
history weighing on her neck.
Last
daughter to breathe,
Last
daughter to die.
The
unloved Hercules came last.
Weak
and shrill, like his brothers,
But
unluckier as the runt.
Enveloped
in pox, his face deformed.
Changed
his name to avoid irony.
Hercules,
now Francois,
Lost
in all the betrayals,
The
changes in allegiance.
Aligned
with his hated sister,
Wanting
to conquer in his own right.
But
again, denied, like the Valois
He
can’t help but be.
And
Francois, not a hero,
Dies
without glory.
All
the Valois gone,
The
Bourbon enter to
Mop
up the blood and
Continue
the long procession
To
death and dissolution.
