The Fourth King

by Sinéad Morrissey

Artwork by Marcus Walters

They found me high
above the breathing canopy,
tightjacketed prodigy—
interstellar silence
laced through my hair
and frost like a tapestry
nailed to my door.

Such absolute dark
above my tippy-top
spangled crown,
ballooning sky-shot
Arctic greens draped
winter’s finest shawl
about my shoulders.

Unstable starship
of the planet,
your lungs are my fingers—
their feather-thin million
branching endings:
tiny-bright tiny-light
redeemers of air.

Spectacular child
in the barn, who fell
like a comet or windfall,
I also attend—
I also stand, in all
my pine-needle finery,
and shine.