The Watch

The hands of time stood still
Long before those shots fired at Sarajevo.
Bound by soggy Italian leather,
Those salty steel springs and cogs,
Lost somewhere between love
And match point;
With a curled, blanched photo of Sophie
Tucked inside.

A glittering, a glare,
Under a blast of black-and-white sun,
A misguided passion lay bare
In the Viennese countryside;
His secret unraveled there,
Before the eyes of an empire.

The emperor placed an embargo
On their togetherness.
They were not to be seen as a pair
In the public places.

The tired Russian Tsar,
The eager German,
And the gentle Pope Leo,
All cosigned on his promise of love,
But,
Years later:

Sophie!
Sophie, he cried, expunging her full name from the record:
Sophie Maria Josephine Albina Chotek, Countess of Chotkova and Wognin.
Sophie, dearest Sophie!
But his red enameled words
Arrived at breathless lips too late,
All dripping with his-and-hers flavored lifeblood.

They died together, the whole world watching.

The hands of time though
Had rusted years earlier,
Giving way to oxidized passion
And mineralized desire.
They should bind history books
With such permanent chemistry.

Be-medaled men
In dull grey and proud green suits
Had warned the duchess,
But she stayed with him, with Him,
And this is how they went to see
The wounded loyalists
One final time.