I’m always the king of something. Ruined or celebrated,
newly crowned, or just beheaded. King of the shady grass
and king of the dirty sheets. I sit in the middle
of the room in December
with the windows open, five pills, and a razor. My life long
secret. My killing power and my staying
power. When the erection fails, when the car almost hits
the divider, I’m king. I wave my hand over
the ants bubbling out of the sidewalk and make them all knights,
I sit at the dinner table and look into the deep
dark eyes of my television, my people. I tell them the kingdom
will be remembered in dreams of gold. I tell them
what was lost will be found. So I put on my black-white
checkered Vans, the exact pair of shoes
my older brother wore when he was still a citizen in the world,
and I go out, I go out into the street
with my map of the dead and look for him,
for the X he is,
so I can put the sceptre back in his hands, take the red
cloak from my shoulders and put it around his, lift the crown
from my head and fit it just above his eyebrows,
so I can get down on one knee, on both
knees, and lower my face and whisper my lord, my master, my king.
Matthew Dickman is the author of five poetry collections, including “Wonderland,” which comes out in March. He lives in Portland, Oregon.
