Like puppets dancing on a string,

his subjects served the monster king.

Tahj watched his own guard kiss a girl

then flay her skin in one long curl.

He watched a mother blind her son

and bow to Tahj when she was done.

Briefly released, the poor souls crept

into fouled corners. How they wept.

His duty clear: to give his life

to try to free them from such strife.

And yet, alone, what chance had he?

So Tahj went down upon one knee,

offered a rather garbled plea

at least to set the children free.

The monster laughed and promised him

one life for his, a choice most grim.

Tahj wavered... the trade lopsided...

sacrifice would be misguided.

∗

Instead they made a secret pact,

a contract simple but exact.

Together they would seek to rule

an empire vast as it was cruel.

The monster linked them mind to mind,

their thoughts invisibly entwined,

but swore he would not pull the string

with which he bound and held the king.

There in that cave the pair agreed

that Tahj would feed the monster’s need,

supply a steady stream of toys,

both men and women, girls and boys.

But should Tahj falter or betray,

why then his family would pay,

and Tahj himself would wield the knives

that slew his sons, his seven wives.

BOYHOOD

Riding with the horse lords that summer,

the summer he turned fifteen,

Prince Keng couldn’t settle,

couldn’t relax, heart pounding

as if he’d been in a fight.

Back home, he rode better

than any other boy he knew.

Here, he was outridden by everyone,

even a six-year-old

who giggled as she stood—

stood!—

on her horse’s back.

The same hills, same horses

as other summers;

the horse lords just as pleased

as they had been the other times

that King Xau, Keng’s father,

had brought his family.

Everything the same

except Keng himself:

frustrated, humiliated.

But then a wedge of geese

would fly overhead, honking raucously,

or the riders would halt to watch

a herd of antelope swim a river,

and Keng’s mood would lift.

One morning, restless,

he woke early, tacked up his horse,

his guards following

though he didn’t want them.

Two miles’ gallop from camp,

Keng stopped,

loosed his feet from the stirrups,

half-knelt on the horse’s back.

“Keng.” A guard’s voice, level.

“Sit back down. Slowly.”

Keng ignored him,

pushed himself upright—

stood!—

his shadow outstretched

on the grass below.

His horse took one step, tail swishing.

Keng lurched,

arms wheeling for balance,

and the horse reared.

Keng toppled.

Hit ground, hand first.

A shattering pain.

He tried to get up,

passed out.

Woke. Mouth dry. Hot.

Forced his eyelids open:

the roof of a tent,

his father leaning over him.

He shifted sideways.

Pain shot from wrist to shoulder,

a grinding scraping

that grayed out the tent.

Three weeks before they let him ride again

(his arm in a sling, his horse at a walk).

Three weeks.

First, lying on a blanket,