number ten

"tut zhe"

i find his bones across the bed,
shallow sighing sleeping breaths,
best believed at morning. i wake
early, drink coffee and paint him
also across the wall. he rolls and
mumbles, "poems," a single sorry
declaration. i won't apologize. i
read the papers as my colours
destroy them--they found the last
two Romanovs, and there science
defines or kills the last faint hopes
of escape or fairy-tale endings.
there the baby boy and his sister:
their faces unprotected by jewels,
bodies corrupted by fire and acid
before time could. in this july,
i paint the 89 freckles spread over
his back, then an "x," halfway
down the stairs; our route for the
quick getaway. he coughs and i
cover my work with the story, just
one more day they might get out
alive. and he and i could be anyone.