[271 words]
wealth is sometimes confused with gravity. both pull.
both convince you not to leave. both say stay right here
& call it wisdom. the king keep his robe covered in grapes,
not for sustenance but for shape. he believes form
is a kind of faith. he waters his image like a god.
a bull sleeps above him—maybe not sleeps, maybe watches.
maybe not a bull, maybe a memory. either way, it breathes
in vines, exhales coins. i once asked him
why he never smiles in portraits, & he said:
smiling is a kind of giving, & nothing is free.
some people dream of castles. he dreams of counting—
how many seeds are in a pear, how many pears make a grove,
how many goves make a name that will outlast his face.
it’s important to know the math of your blessings.
to name what you keep after everyone else leaves.
no one told him vines would root through the cushion,
thread into the chair legs, swarm his ankles in sleep.
his skin slick with juice by morning, his tongue metallic
from all the silver he tried to swallow down into wisdom.
once, he told me: gold is a color for people who hate the sun;
a coin is only heavy when it’s yours,
only sacred when you bury it.
he’s been burying things for decades—scepters, orchard maps,
the jawbones of old dreams. every time he knees in the dirt
the vines bloom faster. he thinks
this means he’s doing something right. he thinks
the vines know him. but they are vines.
they love the nearest thing standing still.
& he just happens to be sitting.
Caiti Quatmann (she/they) is a disabled and queer writer residing in St. Louis. She is the author of three poetry collections and Editor-in-Chief for HNDL Mag. Her work is forthcoming or appearing in McSweeney’s, Rattle, Neologism Poetry Journal, North Dakota Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thread, and others. Find her on social media @CaitiTalks.
