The Prince of Hungry Mouths took up the throne and
assumed a voice commanding enough to eat stars.
I, the last banquet taster, took one pinch of quince
avoiding any bitterness that quick-dries in the throat
but the Anyway People rose up to poison him before war
or famine could corrupt their vital organs. Greedier than pie,
he toppled from his highchair with foaming treacle lips
as is the custom in dead kingdoms. A new prince ascends
and mutiny hides in the landscape with fig preservatives
to keep it moist. I'm careful near any monarch's smell
of omens, chew with skeleton teeth, and become expert
at evading tastes that grip the tightest. King after king
thinks they're more loved than the last, but a king's rule
is always undone by a king's appetite. The Anyway People
say poison only chokes the unworthy, so each monarch served
gets the death they deserve. I, the last taster can't be poisoned
by sick-leaves. My first decree when crowned with surprise
is to burn fields of timothy, hemlock, and the fig leaves
that hide them. The land refuses to function so I offer children
plates piled high with royal tenderloin and silverware.
When they shout reform, I offer up the kids up to my lions.
Deafness descends. I can't hear them chanting Death
to the King of Long Barbecues and start to believe
my inside voice, loud enough to order the stars
into neat rows like the spice gardens before
I set them ablaze, before the kids stabbed me
with my tasting forks and their differences poured out of me,
toxins like thick molasses uniting the kingdom.
