The edible Marie Antoinette
Kathleen M. Heideman
This note is just to say check the top shelf, dear,
I baked you a bundt cake, a cake in the shape
of a woman in skirts wide as an over-turned bowl.
The lavender frosting was impulsive, yes,
and by now you will have noticed the detail work:
the white-ribboned swaggers, the vining lace,
the grand panier that parts like stage curtains,
the petticoat that was trickier than it looks.
It should all seem familiar, since I had in mind
that moist dress I helped you out of last night.
The doll sunk to her waist in the rich center is you, of course,
but the silk bodice — purple frosting spread sweetly
over her plunging neckline — can be taken several ways,
sweat-soaked silk, a garment made of lipstick kisses, etc.
Her powder-sugared wig went as planned;
the plume was a plum-colored afterthought.
Do you disapprove?
Should I have saved the flour for a hungrier day?
Forgive me, Marie.
You moved so sweet, loving, and the hour grew so late.
I woke up this morning humming “let her eat cake…”