only the easy back-and-forth of it,

and beneath, undisturbed,

his father’s love.

BASICS

Donal, the Red King,

red-haired and red-handed in war,

battles behind him, restless in peace,

decided to learn Meqingese

in proof of friendship.

Cut his temper against erudite tutors:

raged, roared, railed,

without retaining the rudiments

of pitch and tone.

Regrouped. Reconsidered.

Rented a mixed-race whore.

Practiced basics in the bedroom:

between, beneath, belt, button,

strap, skirt, shirt, silk, satin,

open, closed, finger, thumb;

the rising, falling, dipping tones

of woman, man, mouth, lips, hips, ribs,

breast, buttock, belly, balls,

hot, heat, hand, hold, hard;

repetition and variation:

standing, lying, table, chair,

front, back, over, under,

in, in, in.

Then wine, honey cakes,

a master class of pillow talk.

Months later,

speaking Meqingese to Xau

for the first time,

Donal, flustered,

complimented Xau’s clothes,

his hair, the fineness of his eyes,

while Xau, perplexed,

inquired how heavily

Donal had been drinking.

FOR HER BIRTHDAY

To Queen Shazia from King Xau:

books, a jade bracelet;

a painting of the southern vista

from the palace she grew up in;

eight mornings together

in the royal greenhouses.

(An extravagance of glass

cast by Ulixian craftsmen

two hundred and thirty years ago:

eight arched greenhouses,

eight being an auspicious number,

ringed round a bronze dragon.)

Eight winter mornings,

the willows sagging with snow,

the palace stonework clad in white,

the tiled greenhouse floors

heated, warm against

Shazia’s bare feet.

Eight mornings

with no meetings, no duties,

with only baby Suyin

and four of Xau’s guards—

the tallest, Gan, a giant of a man,

trying to blend into foliage. Failing.

Eight mornings that Shazia

walked through spring:

peonies, chrysanthemums, camellias;

mandarin trees tricked into blossom;

the scent of sage, saffron, sesame leaves,

cinnamon, mint, cardamom, coriander, cloves.

Strolling, talking, playing cards;

the baby suckling as they sat

by the small perfection

of the lotus pond;

Xau as relaxed as she’d ever seen him,

his arm around her back.

Eight unhurried mornings,

and then, each night,

Xau’s guards briefly banished

to hallway and courtyard.

The messy, urgent merging press

of hands, mouths, skin.

INHERITANCE

High above, the dragon watched

the king and his young son

approach through deepening snow.

Flew down when they drew close.

Her laughter boomed from the rocks

like an anvil dropped on granite.

“Back again, Xau? And bringing

your princeling with you?”

King Xau knelt, weaponless, crownless.

He bowed so far forward

that his hair brushed snow.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Oh, get up off your knees.

I take it this is sufficient?

That you just wanted to show

your son my magnificence?”

Xau stood. He placed his hand

on his son’s shoulder. “Sufficient,

but it would be preferable if you

explained matters to him.”

“You want me to frighten him?”

The dragon turned her head sideways

and flamed hugely,

sending steam from the snow.

“Not to frighten him. To warn him.”

The dragon made an explosive sound

that might have been a snort.

“In eleven hundred years,

I have never done so.”