In spite of her stiff neck
the wife turns, squinting at her
husband. Still flat-heavy
and farther off his side
of the bed, naked.

The cockcrow
soars no higher than
his snore .

Dreaming, he's deaf
to the droning of a fly
flitting by the empty pot
and circling his wife's head
like a halo.

She gargles,
coughing off the remains
of a flu.

Her husband's mouth
reeks with a mantra: Izza, Lara,
Rita Magdalina... The boiling
broth spills over, the firewood
hissing fortissimo.

In his ears
flutters the muted blaring
of Ravel's Bolero.

There's a flurry of butterflies
in his head, in Bolkiah's inner
sanctum, while in the kitchen
his wife's fingers are heavy
with feathers.

He scratches
his scrotum dabbed last night
with talcum.

In the sepia of sleepy light,
the sweat from his wife's ash-
streaked forehead drips,
salting her breakfast
of porridge, steaming.

It is chock-
full with chops from
her husband's cock.