The Trial of Oscar Wilde
by Alison Brackenbury
You could not help but love the boy,
Angel with sullen eyes,
Although it meant you left the girl
Loyal, lovely, wise,
The children, playing by the pool,
You could have kept with lies.
It was not love which brought you down
But what it brought as well,
Your lover’s choice to pay for sex,
Toss off fur coats, to swell
Then tussle by the velvet drapes
Of Oxford’s best hotel.
Your lover’s father paid them,
Your lover lied, then flew,
They queued up for the witness box,
Their eyes shone sullen too.
Love folded peacocks’ plumes. They told
One truth. They hated you.