Poetry

I was Lord of a country no one cared for.

The Queen fucked men for money, and

the King dug graves. At luncheon, he played

Death with his favourite courtiers,

kissing them once on the forehead

and then declaring them knaves – he buried them

living. Nobody cared. A good King kills one man

for each that he saves, and besides,

they were not our men.

 

They say this earth remembers.

They say the soil cries out in protest, and

that this is why it is fallow. For years, we ate

dirt for dinner, dirt for afters, dirt

for five dirt cheap drunken courses, whilst the people fled

like rats from disaster – they left us with

curses. I hardly noticed. The people may go

from the Land That Won’t Grow – a Lord is a Lord

whether he has subjects or no, and besides,

I was not the sort of man

to give up a castle.

 

(When he buried me I swallowed my dry earth

laughing,

laughing, and

grateful.) ∎

 

Words by Katie Dent. Artwork by Sophie Kuang.