Ace of Hearts

By Arabella Gray

Inspired by photo,  Doré's 'Les Saltimbanques'

I believe I am done with performance, 

Until blood soaks through the red felt mat, And the animals kneel like psalms. 

I cradle you, 

But your body is already folding away from me, A pale bird losing feathers, 

Your head tilts sideways, 

Skin translucent and thin as paper, 

rouge leaking, slow and hot, 

Rivering beneath the canvas of your hair. 

I press my fingers at the hollow of your cheek, Cool as wet leaves, 

I count the pulse in silence, 

Folding the moment, tucking it behind my ribs, Yet the breath escapes, shallow and sharp, A thin thread unravelling. 

We cradle you, our boy, 

As if tenderness, 

Could cauterise time, 

We fold the tent, 

Not out of modesty, but shame, 

I cannot stop touching your hair, 

Where the blood crusts like rouge. 

The costumed grief sits with us, 

A cage of chagrin, 

My sleeves bright with inheritance, 

The crowd uncoils in applause, 

The ace of hearts at my feet is but a failed metaphor. 

We hung our hunger in the rafters, 

Fed you sugared names, 

Our prodigy, dove, little flame, 

But you burned too clean, 

And we watched, dumb with gold in our mouths, The audience clapping loudest when you flew, As your spine curled like a ribboned offering, Even as ropes frayed, 

Your body writing its final arc, 

As we counted our coins, 

Body cracking open mid-air, 

Against the ceiling of our want.