I.
In a perfect world,
where knights march bravely
into the face of labor
and bring home the slayed wages
to the trinity:
his chambermaid, wet nurse and cook; (among other things)
his filthy spawn darting
through the halls
spilling the whole day behind them,
there is a pattern that emerges
between the straight lines in the lawn.
He strides through the door
with his battle helmet under his arm,
yet still impressed in his languished face,
to find a woman, worshiping his ability
to be present AND be grownup.
She tosses prayers at his magnificence
that read like front page news:
part catastrophe, part information.
Overwhelmed, his eyeballs fall back into his skull.
His mind darts,
his tongue shrivels.
In his own castle, he retreats,
knuckle smuggling firewater into his goblet.
This disorder desire,
the pattern, the dance
in their cryptic crypt
of stinging silence,
avoidance and inebriation.
His opinions drown in his belly.
She waves her hand in the air
owning the ox.
Her beast of burden is 2 days late
for putting the lines in the lawn.
She, the microhag, breathing shrapnel
grates his ass into supper’s enchiladas.
II.
One dawn,
while the castle was under siege,
he kneels beside her
kisses her still quiet lips
and carries her to the tower.
She is saved twice.
In the air, her bloomers,
a white flag,
a surrender of irritation,
signals to intruders
there is nothing left to be taken.
She gives up and gives in concurrently.
He crowns her
with salvific majesty
just in time for the evening news.
Their ritual, a drug,
has them begging
for constant truce.
III.
In their perfect world
where he marches home
embattled from the trials of labor
into the soft arms of his maiden
with rose stems in his teeth,
his offspring regarding his heroism,
the lines in the lawn are merely garnish.
She digests his daily brief,
his candor, enlightening.
He is the trifecta
of master, lover and compatriot.
She, the quasiprincess, breathing sonnets
polishes the throne
for his ultimate comfort
and spreads velvet on the moat.
The methodical magic,
the pattern, the dance
in their fervid fortress
of adoration and mutual imbibition
is the bliss where the credits roll.