as the cranes passed him

so low, so near

that twice a feathered softness

flicked his hair.

Then the sky stood empty. Silent.

His brother gone.

Xau caught his breath,

looked down at his round-faced son,

who stared back,

alert, intent,

sucking his index finger.

Xau lifted the blanket,

tickled his son’s feet,

bent down and whispered

into Keng’s tiny, perfect ear.

Then the king wiped his face

with the sleeve of his robe,

put his arm around Shazia,

went back indoors to the reception.

DECORATION

In the royal palace of Meqing:

five hundred paintings, a thousand ornaments;

a daily fragrant shifting from peony,

to magnolia, to jasmine, to plum blossom

arrayed in vases of porcelain, silver, jade.

Holly branch with berries:

In the second week of King Xau’s reign,

the morning after his guards removed

the old woman dusting his rooms

so Xau might have peace,

and Xau said to let her be:

a holly branch by his slippers.

Pine bough:

In the second month,

the day after the king asked

the cleaning woman her name:

a freshly cut bough of pine

placed on his desk.

A smell of forests.

Mint leaves with rounded stone:

Fourth month,

after Xau introduced Tian

to his foreign-born queen

and the pair of them bowed to her:

mint leaves on the wash basin.

Maple, chestnuts, herbs:

Ninth month, tenth month,

after she saw how the king looked

when he returned from war:

maple leaves, roasted chestnuts,

bay leaves, sage, mint,

fresh-crushed lemon balm.

Paper flower:

Eleventh month,

after Xau came—

unannounced, no commotion,

only two guards as escort—

to the funeral of Tian’s husband:

an intricately folded paper flower.

Shell:

Second year,

each of the five mornings

that Xau stayed in bed,

cantankerous, coughing,

littering handkerchiefs

on floor, table, bedcovers,

more trouble than his infant son:

assorted sea shells,

the pickled cucumbers

the king favored,

the sound of Tian humming

as she cleaned.

A HANDFUL OF NIGHTS

Zither under one arm,

Moon Swan walked toward

King Xau and his guards,

the men sitting beneath the maples

in a spill of lantern-light,

this celebration in honor of Tsung,

captain of the king’s guards—

Tsung whom Moon Swan had first seen

back when he’d been the youngest

of King Hao’s guards,

left to stand in a corner

while she pleasured the king—

A long time ago, that king dead,

his son now crowned.

The foolishness of her youth

to have wanted the king’s guard,

not the king;

the foolishness of age

to want him still.

Tsung, sitting on King Xau’s right,

started when he recognized Moon Swan,

glancing from her to the young king

in evident confusion.

“Thank you for coming.”

King Xau dipped his head,

a clean-shaven youth, slightly built,

dressed like his guards

in black pants, black tunic.

Not his father’s equal.

Moon Swan sat down on the grass,

adjusted her zither,

opened with an old love song,

looking neither at the king nor Tsung,

but the other guards,

holding each man’s gaze in turn,