The Catholic knife of Ravaillac struck heart at ides of May;
from a palace window they cried the Queen l'hanno ammazzato.
And the seer, the prophetess tore at their eyes—having seen it, they see it again—
& the cobblestone drank the King.
Fingers curled, unclurled & slowed, & pointed like a gun on a bridge
at the day they'd cry l'hanno ammazzato to the Queen—
& she would watch the sorceress tear at her eyes, her lover's blood
run back the years, accusing.
And other Mays & ides will see the rivers run uphill
from the scaffold of a satire to the feet of a silent Calvanist;
& the run-together blood will carry you off, you broad-faced maiden—
from your throat you'll bear his children.