John II of Castile becomes King aged 22 months.
During the coronation he started to lick his royal garb,
then he put a whole fist full in his mouth and chewed it.
I’d wondered if that might happen, knowing his love for peaches.
He started to make a sound like a duff violin note
every time he saw his own feet; they’d pinned rubies to his shoes.
He dropped the orb immediately; it hit the marble floor,
and rolled down the aisle like a grenade, bouncing off the pews.
The Archbishop’s hand flew to his heart, rings flashing like fire
in the spotlight, the congregation gasped collectively.
He snatched the silver spoon and tried to feed himself
the anointing oil, it dribbled down his chin and on to his collar,
his tongue flicked over and over his shiny little teeth.
He stared at the wobbly reflection of his face in the apple of gold.
The crown slid off his head like a blob of ice cream from a cone.
He started to cry and didn’t stop. He was King.
