(courtesy of google images)
There are things, Mademoiselle Coco,
That you cannot foretell.
The camellia on your tweed jacket rests humbly
As the world’s patriarchal gestures
Soil the hems of skirts
And the tulle beneath them.
The pearls around your neck
Look like rocks crumbling at every
Debauchery men of your
Time write on history.
There are things, Mademoiselle Coco,
That you cannot foretell—
Women learned, after you,
How to tailor their lives
On their own
(not rely on their fathers,
Husbands, sons and the world.)
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