Heft

Mark Ward

 

 

Those thin men, skeletons 
in tight flesh. They say you’ve  

put on weight since 
the whole ‘new clothes’ affair—

but at least there’s no more pretence. 

They were sure of your 
shame, but instead you revelled 
in how your body moved, let those 

knights aspire to tautness—

you installed mirrors, had seconds,  
took to walking around the palace 

naked and gloriously feckless.  
 
I had left home, being the youngest 
and having eaten them out of it, I found 

a job as a footman; yours.  
You liked to inspect us yourself 
(which caused a whisper) when  

company was coming—  
some queen and her stable of princesses 
to dangle under your nose. That day,   

you wore a robe, just about.  
 
My uniform didn’t fit and I bulged  
out of it, embarrassed. We didn’t speak 

but a week later, one arrived,

tailor-made. The others noticed and  
the first footman told me to go and  

say thank you.  
At your room, the maid said you were  
in the library. Asleep naked in a chair, 

your book had slid down, covering  
 
nothing—you awoke and stared at me,  
still half-asleep, before realizing your body 

had woken too. You were embarrassed,  
something no one had seen you be since  
that day the whole town laughed at you,  

not for your body but your gullibility.  
You had swooned over the tailor, you later told me,  
his barrel-chest, his measuring tape covering every

inch of you. You wanted it to be true.  
 
Now, you reached for a robe and covered yourself,  
abashed. I’m sorry for interrupting, Sire. And you  

laughed, smiled. You didn’t. Jones, isn’t it?  
I instinctively straightened up. Yes, Sire. And you  
didn’t speak for a long minute. I’m glad to see that 

your new attire suits you well. I wanted you 
to be comfortable in it, a handsome man like yourself.  
The next day, dressed, you sat and spoke with me, 

about small things, palace life, everything. 
 
Within a few weeks, our visits were twice daily.  
You asked if I would be happy to spend my time with you

as your personal footman. You stared at the ground,  
nervous I would say no. I’d really like that but there’s  
just one thing. You sighed, regretting saying anything.  

The clothes you’ve been wearing have got to go.  
You smiled but said, I can’t, not around you. I undid your buttons,  
your breeches and kissed you, embracing your heft. I stripped too 

and brought us to the mirror to see us in our finery.