The Emperor Pats His Lips with a Napkin

Given that you are the object 
of the emperor’s touch; given that you object

to his learnt repetition of love; given the abject 
shame of a body entered by another body’s object

permanence; given shame’s objective; 
given your maiden name and the object

of the game: may everybody know, but nobody object— 
the emperor is your maker. And you—his subject

of rule—have tried to say it true, only to be subjected 
to a cruel inheritance in which memory is the subject

of a sentence the mind cannot objectify 
long enough to hold, but holds true enough to subject

all touch to this kingdom of touching, this abject 
poverty of care dressed as care itself—you slept, objectively,

in your emperor’s bed. The rest is subjective, 
but it was no rest.