The Death of Marat

The Death of Marat

écrivant pour le bonheur du peuple

What was Marat thinking

as he sat in his tub

before rudely interrupted

by Charlotte Corday?

Was his mind fixed

on The Revolution - 

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité

Jacobins and Montagnards    

and headless roi

c’est l’etat  no more

when virgin Caen sister

walked demurely

through his door?

Did his thoughts drift

to alpine days

and boyhood dreams

in Neuchatel;

strolls with Father

along the lake

reflecting

discussing matters

philosophical?

Were there regrets

at this late date?

Did he pause to study

soap bubbles

in refracted light,

ou nouvelles découvertes

sur la lumière;

diversion from

dermatatis

herpetiformis,

incessant itch inflamed

hiding in the sewers

of Paris

for the cause?

Was he aroused

by…other things;

tumescent rush

beneath the board;

had he misconstrued

Marie-Ann’s blush   

for passion of  

another sort

while she played games

parading names

nine inch kitchen

blade veiled  

beneath her corset?

When did le docteur

become aware

Mademoiselle’s knife

had cut the air?

Did he observe

it gore his chest

or
was he distracted

by her list

when vulnus punctum

could not be ignored

as his blood poured

out while Simonne sipped tea,

jealous in the other room

until she heard his dying plea

Aidez-moi, ma chère amie!

Could he have known

that Jaques Louis

would frame the scene,

entombing him

Pieta-like 

for posterity

a pair

with Lepeletier

gone missing?

What was Marat’s final conclusion

when he slumped in his tub

and his towel-wrapped head rolled

to the right  

and his arm dropped down

while his hand

clutched his pen,

vivid, dramatic horror,

pitiful sight?

Was his mind fixed,

intransigent?

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!

or...did he curse

his mortalité,

l'ange de l'assassinat

and the God-damned

Revolution?

                   © W.H. Stokes

                   June 2, 2010