Five Short-lived Kings of the House

1973.

He gripped the picture rail,
tightrope steps along the mantelpiece,
careful not to knock the Moroccan
candelabra, traversed the book case,
took a risk on the sailcloth
curtains, abseiled the window frame
and, at last, the sound of applause

like his Clarks bursting
through the bay window.

1980.

A crown of almost-purple spikes,
the smell of Elmer’s glue,
and for epaulets, safety pins
from his mother’s sewing kit.

1983.

With Anya Zsofia in the spare bedroom,
a stag’s head above them, the smell
of his parents’ photos developing
on a clothes line. He should have
known he would need the light on.
They came out overexposed.

1989.

In a space above a janitorial supplies
warehouse, listening to Altern-8,
surrounded by those he loved,
believing it would never end
as the jaws wound on like clocks.

1995.

Carrying Sarah Cordell, his princess,
up two flights of stairs, he huffed
her across the threshold, on to the bed.
He surveyed his wife: a valley, a coastline,
a cracked estuary. His dominion was undisputed.
They would have to adopt an heir.