The Macbeths

By Urvish Lodha

don’t I know my king.

I fitted a yellow cushion on his seat

rest, my darling,

Marie Antoinette’s ass.

don’t I know my king.

his lady’s hand in mine,

as though it were a beetle on a leaf

tentative, trembling

a corset boned,

her jaw tight, as though the

doors of his eyes

slammed in her face and

beckoned me to a dark foyer

whispering,

‘don’t you know your king?’

whistling like a broken nose.

don’t I know my king.

all his horses and all his men

and the king is yet to rise again

from where he took a seat

don’t I know my king.

the lady’s gaze is cold as shell

with beetle juice rubbed on her teeth

his spine slithering at their feet

don’t I know my king.

alone in the gallery

spit swirling in his wine

wine tugging on his eyes.

By Urvish Lodha