by Tanuj Solanki
A dozen testimonies
of the queen's fetish for doormen,
stand outside the palace facing east,
facing the rising sun
that smiles with a blessing on their lives.
Remnants of last night's drizzle darken
the colors of the palace sandstone,
reddened yet awaiting further reddening,
as yellow light strives to enter royalty.
The thirteenth doorman sleeps inside,
for the first and the last time,
in a room that has seen
regicide, patricide, and fratricide;
his hand is over the queen's dark hair--
a status quo from last night.
Knowledge of the fetish evades him,
as the secrets reside in the queen's bosom.
The dozen is puzzled in their own minds
‘Oh, the ways of the regal esoteric.’
But the erotic memory of royal treatment,
makes them look over their shoulders
in comic curiosity
to decipher from hints the happenings
of the latest night in the oldest room.
The queen wakes up first,
and advances to the balcony,
in a robe that tells the dozen
'Oh, the physical has transpired.'
Little clouds of jealousy surround them,
as dark clouds of rain surround the palace,
swiftly,
instantaneously.
The queen ponders the events
of a night where she loved,
loved with passion,
and promise and hope,
and a beckoning of eternity,
crushed by a perfection
she thought couldn’t exist.
A single tear drops down her left cheek,
and somehow manages to sparkle
in the cloudy morning of the now grim day.
The dozen watches with intent
the changing hues of the queen's countenance.
And though each of them is lustful,
each of them depraved,
their jealousy mixes with happiness--
the weird happiness that emanates
from knowing the one you might have loved,
is loved.
And then in the next instant,
the queen jumps from the balcony;
head hitting the sandstone floor
of the courtyard,
blood gushing in a random flow
on the flatness.
Death comes swiftly, even before
the dozen arrives to look for it.
The thirteenth sleeps smugly,
and the room witnesses suicide.