But the king grew increasingly erratic
swaddled in blankets, demanding that iron rods
be sewn into his clothing, so that when his glass
body bumped a wall, it would not shatter. He held
still for hours, and would not let himself be touched.
Many people do this: touch and refuse it in return,
understanding that if done correctly, the glass
of their body will not break. My father denies
his death: he’ll fly to Florida, have a burger, walk.
Before he was sick he was health-conscious, eating
salmon and rice, bench-pressing. Glass was a rich
man’s game, to have glass was to be afraid
it would break. And so the king was richer for
his glass body, more skittish. We all believed
the delusion at first, but when I began to suspect
that strapping pillows to mortality would not
preserve it, I conceded to the power
of death. And I saw the king and his legacy
of kings lining the shelf like tchotchkes,
and knew neither they nor I would shatter,
only rot. Still the jesters of the court held fast
to their precious orbs, singing their prayers
that we might be so, and forever.
Heather Gluck is a poet and editor from New York who received her MFA from Columbia University. Her work is published in Anthropocene, Palette Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others. She was named runner up in the 2023 Ledbury Poetry Competition won the 2022 Crosswinds Poetry Contest, and was named second runner up in the 2021 Tennessee Williams Writing Contest. She has served as editor in chief of the literary magazines Exchange and Some Kind of Opening, and as a reader for the Adroit Journal and the Columbia Journal. She is the managing editor for MAYDAY and an associate editor at Majuscule. See more at heathergluck.com
