Anne of Austria, sister of Philip IV, to King Louis XIII of France;
                               Isabella of Bourbon, sister of Louis XIII, to King Philip IV of Spain


We are laced taut
As an archer’s bow strung with catgut, a lean

And deadly spring to the touch. At each breath
Our stomachs press whalebone, seven bent fingers

Stiff as our own ribs and wrapped in linen, leaving
The fine print of their weave on our skin. We are wired

For great things and small movements, hooped
To glide like gigantic orchids, full-

Blown, slow-footed, and deliberate
In error. Afterwards we will bear the strange marks

Of another house, gold arms on a gold collar,
But for now no other jewels hang about our necks

Than these: pearls knotted with string, clasped
With velvet, and fitted just the length

To choke us. This day will slip from us
Shedding marquisette, point d’esprit, zibelline, trailing

Taffeta and broché behind it; it will leave us bare-
Handed and desperate to remember what we were

Before it, and it will take everything we have
To recollect what we wore when we walked

The length of the nave without stopping, how we kept
Our eyes straight and unturning until it was over.