The Service Prince
When the wide white store evaporates
and he stands in mineral warmth,
unassuming at the service desk,
there’s nothing to do but relinquish.
Relinquish gladly, there’s nothing else
in this fighting world, in this controlled
space where we cling to composed identity,
as he stands with black rain on his forehead.
As he stands comfortable in a body
that comforts the famished eye, climbing
a precipice of shoulders, T-framed, slinking
down the narrow, down the passages of him.
Nothing to keep the body melt from cascading
when he looks with gold-flecked eyes, sees
through narrow black-framed glass, stares
with the coursing goal of silt-silk rivers.
When you set the pen to the counter, a sword
before the prince, and his tender lips spread,
the fluorescence at throne in his smile, when
you beg to kneel at the gate of his tower,
and he says rise, and he says flood me.
Originally published in Midwest Literary Review, 2011