sunlight touching the edge of the bed

where Shazia lay:

pale, her hair damp, sweaty,

cradling their son on her chest,

the physician pushing something

between her legs—

the sheets down there red—

“Shazia—”

Xau knelt beside her,

kissed her damp forehead—

“Shazia, we, I, I love you.”

“Xau.” Her eyes brimmed.

He kissed her again,

touched their son’s cheek. Cold.

Their son’s lips purple,

his nose so small, so perfect.

“I’m sorry,” said Shazia.

He bent over her,

held both her and their son.

“Don’t be. Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry.”

He wanted to lie,

wanted to soothe her,

wanted to say it would be all right.

He wanted to ask her,

wanted to beg her

to stay.

He did not.

He said, inadequately,

“Our son is beautiful.”

She closed her eyes,

panting for breath. “Xau?”

“I’m here. I love you,” said Xau.

He held her, held their son

until she stopped panting,

stopped breathing,

her skin emptying of color.

The physician stood up

and moved away from the bed.

Xau let go of Shazia,

anchored the baby

beneath her arms.

He had to get up,

had to tell the children.

First—

He looked for the physician,

the midwife.

“Thank you for attending our wife. Let—”

His voice crumbled.

He wrestled the words out.

“Let the baby stay with her.”

EVERYWOMAN

When Shazia cradles

her stillborn child,

she is no longer a queen:

she is a weaver,

measuring her son

for a shroud.

When they stuff bandages

up her bleeding body,

she is not a queen:

she is a washerwoman

tallying bloodied sheets,

a cook oozing clotted soup.

When they bury her,

when every bell sounds,

when the white-robed king

lights a white candle

for their white-wound child,

then she will be a queen.

Before,

when she gave suck

to her firstborn,

when she sang to him,

when she pressed her face

in the fold of his neck

and smelled her milk,

then she was richer

than kings.

TRAINING: GUARDS

In the innermost courtyard of the palace,

Li, captain of King Xau’s guards,

observed the training session

dissolve into a shambles.

The warm-up routine

completed without disgrace,

but the six-on-three combat wretched.

That the king was off-form:

anticipated and unavoidable.

Grief not a matter to be rushed.

That the guards were off-form:

a threat to the king’s safety.

Gan and Dao,

assigned to fight alongside Xau

whilst the other six attacked,

were both overly protective,

hardly letting the king

parry a single thrust,

an extravagance they could ill afford

when thus outnumbered.

Of the six attackers:

four guards too tentative,

not only failing to attack the king,

but scarcely even engaging

with Gan and Dao.

The remaining two, Atun and Leong,

on-form, formidable—

those two, like Li himself,

able to disregard all distraction

when they fought.

Dao would have bruised ribs

despite his padded jacket.

Had the blades not been blunted,

had Atun and Leong used full force,

the pair of them would have killed

Gan, Dao, and the king.