image by author.

zeros.

With me supine, they’re all dramatically foreshortened, huge nostrils topping giant balls of brocade.
Will lie here for a while longer, just till I catch my breath.
These are my courtiers, solemnly surrounding the ailing clown, that is me.
The King pulls his coat tighter, clears his throat, then says nothing.
His queen seeks poetry and lust in his eyes, I try to gauge the dynamics but remain none the wiser. She turns and leaves and the scene bleeds rivers of burgundy and gold.
I’m overwhelmed by the attention I receive, voices are muted, it’s all hush-hush.
“He’s breathing. He’ll come to.”
They’re trying to decide if I’m their fault and I’m wondering — who wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t been born?