Princess

His daughter lives beneath a pall
of silence, immured by blank faces.
Each day she is dressed and undressed
by servants, as if a doll.
Will she hide inside fissures
in the wall or under floorboards,
behind arrases stitched with
heraldic battles, the blood of serfs?
Her wits prompt her to tell delaying
lies, demand a cloak made from
every kind of fur, dresses
radiant as galaxies.
Should that fail, the wild card of escape
lurks up her satin sleeve.