I offered my throat to the King's knife at dusk,
as the dust settled in a chorus of cricket song
and the sunset stitched the fading light with stars.
The King was lusty with red wine and spit
flew from his lips like arrows when he spoke.
I toyed with his beard and laughed at his jokes.
Later, he heaved me up on his barrel chest.
I knew death was near. As he pressed his coarse tongue
to my nipples, I leant and whispered in his ear:
Once upon a time there was King
who caught his wife fornicating
with the help. He sliced them in four
with a single stroke of his Scimitar.
The King paused at my words and held me above
him by the throat. Demanded to know
what became of the King? Was he arrested? What did it mean?
Behind his eyes all hell burned. I knew he thought
to murder me by dawn. With my hand I sought
out the rope which tied his pants and undid it.
Knotting my fingers in his crotch I said,
Tomorrow, tomorrow. I will tell you then.
And he threw his head back and gasped as he came in my hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment