The king woke
drenched in sweat.
He’d forgotten
to sign the latest orders
of execution—
the dissidents
would spend one more day
with their heads
attached. That’s how it goes,
‍whispered the cricket
into the ear
of the orphan
as she slept on a pile
of dirty rags. Why drink
and dance the reel
when you can break
your fingers
in the cotton mill?
‍I was eating soup
in a restaurant.
A procession carried in
a coffin and set it
on the floor. It was so
small. The mourners
opened the lid, but I
wouldn’t look. I stood
and spilled my bowl
down my pants. Help,
‍I cried out, there’s soup
in my fly! The mourners
filled the coffin with
laughter, then sealed it
shut. I swear that’s the truth.
Meanwhile, the dissidents
in their prison cell gave
all their bread to a cat
living in the alley
below their window.
On the cat’s back
was an open wound
in the shape
of a comet. The wound
never healed, just got bigger
and bigger, no matter
how much bread the dissidents
dropped from their window.
Somehow, the cat kept
opening her eyes every
morning. She never cried out,
even in the rain.
And it rained every night.