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My Kingdom for a Murmur of Fanfare

Kaveh AkbarKaveh Akbar June 16, 2020
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It’s common to live properly, to pretend

you don’t feel heat or grief: wave nightly


at Miss Fugue and Mister Goggles before diving

into your nightcap, before reading yourself


a bedtime story or watching your beloved sink

to the bottom of a lake and noting his absence


in your log. The next day you drop his clothes off

at Goodwill like a sack of mail from a warplane


then hobble back to your hovel like a knight moving

only in Ls. It is comfortable to be alive this way,


especially now, but it makes you so vulnerable to shock — 

you ignore the mortgage and find a falconer’s glove


in your yard, whole hand still inside. Or you arrive home

after a long day to discover your children have grown


suddenly hideous and unlovable. What I’m trying

to say is I think it’s okay to accelerate around


corners, to grunt back at the mailman and swallow all

your laundry quarters. So much of everything is dumb


baffle: water puts out fire, my diseases can become

your diseases, and two hounds will fight over a feather


because feathers are strange. All I want is to finally

take off my cowboy hat and show you my jeweled


horns. If we slow dance I will ask you not to tug

on them but secretly I will want that very much.



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