He [the king] has, or takes, the land in his natural Body, yet to this natural Body is conjoined his Body politic, which contains his royal Estate and Dignity…and these two Bodies are incorporated in one Person”
—Ernst Kantorowicz

She stands before a sculpture named Look
Where she unspools twine from the knots
She loosened from her wrists the sigils
Heaving like words in a throat opened
Her Prayer like a touch and boiling
Shiver turning the dust-clouds into rain.

He stands before a lectern named Wash
Where he uncoils ribbons from the holes
He cut through his fingertips the callouses
Spinning like words in a throat opened
His Confession like a breath and frothing
Sieve turning the faucet-spit into wine.

She stands before a cabinet named Him
Where she unfastens metal from the wounds
He fashioned from his longing the edges
Dulling like words in a throat opened
Her Mouth like an end and whistling
Language turning him and her into them.

He stands before a maelstrom named Her
Where he uncovers stardust from the skin
She buried in her histories the diamonds
Thawing like words in a throat opened
His Arms like a wish and rippling
Music turning her and him into them.

They step into a Body named Them,
A sovereign dressed in dashes – in the
Oneness – of blood and otherwise.
They wash the sheets – in their creases,
Hands like residue – they look until 
They know – all has been taken in.
They caress the cracks – of their Body,
Rolling – with the force of water –
Against a charged calm of white,
These puppet strings, these finger blades
Melting into entropy – into thirsting skin.
Are you hurting? Can you know me?
Form – a dialogue of breath – that never
Speaks in anything but wind-chimes
I open – I am vessels – I open
A crescendo of self – the taste of 
Salt – a latticework that pieced their
Organs into motion – their storm
Breaks in rearing stars and thunder –
In the grandeur and silence of a
Church bell falling. Wet and earning,
They hold their Body in a singular
Time – one unfinished, but crackling
Like Godhood just the same.

He stands before an artist named She

She stands before a painting named He

And the roil beckons, ebbs.

Writer | Aidan Cooper ’26 |
Editor | Mel Arthur ’25 |
Artist | Sofia Yadigaroglu ’26 |