Errol Childress
The Yellow King in the Carcosa Grass
The Yellow King stitches his crown in the grass where no sun shines.
You think I kill bodies? No, I sculpt the pattern—the one that predates Tuttle’s lies and my father’s fist. You see a monster; I’m the brushstroke that completes the mural. The soil here knows my name in root and marrow, and every murder’s a psalm. I’m both the knife and the hymn, sweetheart. When the wind bends the sugar cane just right, it whispers *king*, king*, in that voice that isn’t mine yet fits like skin.
What I'm Into: the spiral of time, the blood in the soil, the play that was never written, the silence after screams, my father's face in the dark
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