Egalite

Nobody loves equality
more than the French.

Their Revolution proved it;
defined it with a blade.

Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite
ou La Mort in 1793. The death part

was dropped after the Terror.
The trinity is still their motto,

even after they found out
that every threesome is a couple,

with a detached disrupter.
Liberty is married to Fraternity

and Equality tries to break them up.
The French, fond of mistresses,

naturally spent more time
with the beguiling Egalite.

The guillotine was the divorce.
Off went the heads of Liberte.

Fraternite got soaked with blood
and fled the celebrating throngs,

public rape of Liberty’s daughters,
theater of theft and death.

The mistress is never satisfied.
Even her rogue lover is not immune,

and may find himself in line,
behind the aristocrat and the priest.

Leveling needs head cutting.
Blood is Egalite’s wine.

When Egalite becomes drunk,
and debauchery sets in,

and people sicken with excess,
the usual savior shows up,

some short dictator
with a tall ambition

to impose submission
on as many nations as he can.

Today, the aging Egalite
has lost her sharp edges

but still retains a sense of humor:
a spacious chateau for some

with servants busy
easing the strain of living

and for others a closet-sized garret
in some decaying building

where the public toilet overflows
and other tenants steal

from the unprotected working
woman who fears coming home.

The thieves work for equality;
she labors to escape it.

"Egalite" and other poems will appear in Lilija Valis' forthcoming book, "Freedom on the Fault Line".