the mourners robed in white,

white candles in his children’s hands.

His guards bore his litter

to the graveside,

lowered him into the earth.

One by one, silent,

the guards drew their swords,

placed them by his body.

The captain of the guards last.

He laid down his sword,

turned to bow to the new king.

Walked, weaponless, alone,

away from the graveside.

No speeches. No songs.

CORONATION

A court ceremony,

a piece of pageantry,

weeks late,

the power Keng’s from the hour

that the dragon had named him king.

Bare-headed,

robed in crimson silk,

even his feet in soft red slippers,

Keng walked the marbled aisle

between two silken scarlet seas

of ministers, magistrates, ambassadors,

scholars, advisors, army commanders,

a rubied splendor broken only

by the black of his guards,

the white of his father’s widow.

Keng knelt on the bottom step

of the massive dragon throne,

bent his bare head.

The assembly silent, still

as the steward set the crown

on Keng’s head,

then a manyfold rustling

as people prostrated themselves:

every man, every woman

flattened to the floor.

Keng took a breath,

accepted the weight of that,

ascended his throne.

THE SIGN OF THE KING

Cold,

that first night in the horse country,

autumn on the way,

but Li didn’t put up his tent.

He lay on the grass,

rolled in a blanket.

Stared up at the stars,

waiting in case the wild horses came,

sent, somehow, by King Xau.

Woke at dawn.

No wild horses.

His king, his friend, dead.

Li put the pack saddle and bags

onto Narson, mounted Kuan.

Rode on into the steppe,

pushing the thought of Xau away.

Nothing more that day

than wind-stirred grass,

the rhythm of the horse beneath him,

a hawk overhead.

On the second night he drank

a bottle of rice wine.

Found no comfort in it.

Woke up stiff, chilled.

Saddled the horses.

Rode, the grasslands extending

as if without limit.

At times,

the memory of Xau unstoppable.

The king’s broken body,

the king struggling to speak,

telling Li not to blame himself,

but the fault Li’s, the failure Li’s,

Li who had been captain

of the king’s guards.

Li shouted out as he rode,

shouted for forgiveness, for a sign,

for the wild horses to come.

Nothing.

On the fourth day

he saw smoke in the distance,

an encampment of horse warriors.

Li wanted no company,

turned his horses aside.

When it rained at night,

he set up the tent,

otherwise he slept on the ground.

He took care of the horses

and little else,

subsisted on dried meat and nuts,

his hair tangled, greasy,

his clothes grimy.

One night in his tent,

over the sound of rain,

a pounding of hooves.

Li bolted outside.

“Li, give me a hand, will you?”

Gan. Gan who had been a king’s guard once.

Gan and two horses.

Only Gan.

Li unsaddled one of the horses,

carried Gan’s bags into the tent.

Gan came in after him, dripping wet.