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Last Flight of the Gypsy King Tomsk Airport, Siberia Gypsies’ cries engulf the hall: their black-eyed king has died too young. Overdose, the desk clerk says. He shakes his head, tearing my ticket with inky fingers. The gypsy king requires a ticket, too, his body charged as cargo, counted among the crates, hand-tagged for destination. Last night I drank with the gypsy king. He offered me pearls and precious things. We drank to friendship, love, and art; he gave me dewdrops from his heart. In the lounge, we women secure bags beneath our arms as we pause before the mirror, glancing nervously at a gypsy girl who lifts her hem to wipe wet eyes. Everyone fears the gypsies’ light-fingered ways: peddlers of dross, crocodile tears, traffickers in our secret dreams. Last night I danced with the gypsy king; we danced, forgetting everything, his arms around me strong and warm, his kinglets sleeping back at home. 34 Gypsies mill around the gate jostling against the passengers, tearing their hair, clinging to one another. The dead king’s children, dressed in velvet, pass from hand to hand like glass-eyed dolls. Their mother wails as if her heart might break. As if no one had ever died before. Last night I lay with the gypsy king, his hands upon me trembling. We lay, and loved, until the dawn, until his wife came calling, calling. . . . for Elizabeth Miles 35 ...

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