At night, the daughter of
the self-proclaimed King of the Jews,
finds her Louboutin heels slip
in the pudding earth of La Madeline.
She expected to be lost in a Haboob,
the voices of children tearing
at her tasteful cream dress
with every grain of sand.
Instead, she feels bone and silk,
her foot drags up the gilt garter
clinging to the femur,
the threads of grey flesh,
the torn vastus medalius
that once bowed at Mass,
or for La Pappa Roi,
Grandfather King—
A man of many women,
just like her own father.
She stumbles, goes down
with her hand braced
for impact—
and feels the forehead
wrinkle in surprise,
or outrage, another blond
apfel of a father’s eye—
another emissary of mama,
a royal sweet, a broken figurine,
that stares up at her
with blowfly blues,
and says,
Mon Dieu,
Ce n’est pas
ce que tu pensais,
n’est-ce pas?¹
¹ My God, it’s not the way you thought it would be, is it?
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Jasmine Marshall Armstrong is a poet, journalist and humanities researcher. He work is informed by the grit and glamour of growing up working class in California. Her poetry has been published by Sojourners, Solo Novo and Askew, among others.
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