Thirty-one nights

that she went to sleep

not knowing whether Xau would return;

whether, if he did not return,

the enemy would advance

to the capital,

to the palace—

With only her guards as witness,

she sat up in her bed

half the night, reading;

reading each page

twice, three times

before she fathomed

what it said,

the kitten Xau had given her

curled on the pillow beside her.

(The enemy would kill her if they came,

or rape her and then kill her,

but the cat—

maybe they would let the cat live.)

A month of nights,

but she wept only once,

when she thought

of the kitten,

how some man,

some war-drunk man,

might kill it—

a small death,

paltry beside

the battle-dead,

but she could not hold it.

Three weeks after

the news of his victory,

Xau returned,

intact, unscarred,

yet not as he was:

the lightness in him gone,

or buried so deep

he could not find it.

But he was home.

Let that be enough.

NIGHT

That night,

King Xau’s first night home from war,

with their guards

in the hall outside,

Shazia undressed Xau.

Between them,

between her hand and his skin,

unasked questions:

Did he kill anyone?

How many people?

How many did his army kill?

Shazia undressed Xau,

but he did not reach for her.

(Did he watch men die?

How many men?

How many did he lead to their deaths?)

She told him how the kitten

had chased a moth,

the kitten’s tail puffed up

as if the moth were a wolf.

He nodded, but did not smile.

All that night,

he spoke only once,

when they were first alone,

when he told her he loved her,

staring at her oddly

as if she were a fragile thing,

as if she might break

were he to touch her.

They lay six inches apart

in the dimness

of a half-darked lantern.

An hour or more

before Xau reached

for her hand.

Two more nights

before he held her against his body.

A month before he told her

a part of what he’d seen.

MEMORIALS

On the third day after his return,

after King Xau had seen every other minister,

after he had spoken (at length)

to each visiting ambassador,

after five separate requests,

King Xau granted the Finance Minister

a private audience.

The minister, a man three times Xau’s age,

resplendent in gold-embroidered silk,

bowed three times.

“Your Majesty, the magnificence

and swiftness of your victory

enriched the treasury

beyond expectation.”

Xau, lacking splendor,

his leather jerkin well-worn,

his trousers unpatterned and undyed,

neither stood, nor bowed, nor nodded,

but fished a sheet from the paperwork

littering his desk.

“Explain this.”

The minister beamed.

“It is my authorization

for your triumphal arch,

awaiting your countersignature—”

“No.” Xau tore the sheet in half.

“Your Majesty?”

The minister looked about

as if searching for support,

but there was no one present

save the king and two guards.

“Would Your Majesty prefer a grander edifice,