Jonathan Manning

Two Kings

I watch two kings fuck
on a canopy bed,
fingers fat with rings,
frothing through heavy
robes, still muscled
from the poachers hanged
this morning—something
my medieval self might enjoy.
“For the animals,” I might
whisper, masked, & yank
the death lever.

Their highness invite me
to play heir birth, act as stirrups
to deliver the double prince
of all-male blood. By the end,
despite no body, there is new breath
in the room. “We will lose you,”
they say, collapsed on a pile of furs,
indistinguishable—only their crowns
piercing the mass. 

Before there were two-way mirrors
there were portraits with trick
eyes through which we servants
could spot the blood pudge
peeking over kings’ belts,
dreaming downfall. 
I know the corridors & even
some dungeons. I know when
I don’t eat.

Outside, the calamity in the esplanade
might be some holyday cavalcade
a moving life I’ve only observed, 
& so, to it in absence only
could I ever be—

unless I slid down the ivy,
casualty my slippers in escape
(just an hour or two) to hear
my singing voice clear,
choral and directionless
from somewhere behind the float,
happy at my untrained yodle’s
cracks and warble.

We’d make it to the water’s edge
where the papier mache melts
off the machines which we bury
in the sand as guarantees the future
will have a legend to dig up,
to bury something bigger
than each other’s bodies. 

In the bedchamber the royal mound
heaves slow & huge. There are no
windows to let anything out, only
a flue for the smoke of the fire—
the only other moving thing
in the room. I feel the keyholes,
the paintings, the false panels’ 
pulse bulge in anticipation.
Could there not be a dagger
in a room so decorated? 
Could my hands be enough?

Jonathan is a poet in Los Angeles, and makes his living as a comic book editor. He is grateful for your time and readership.