Devotion & The Other


Every Sunday
the Knight walks

the Princess

to the train

Her gait soft

like a

His legs light

like fire.

Sunday, the Knight

walks the


to the station, she
always makes him


He waits gladly.

She waves a wand
her eyelash;

he sings into her ear.

She rewards him.

Within a minute
the Princess

vani s h e  s .    .      .

intermittent joy



I don’t want to blow out
the candles of your past lives.
I want to know, what about the fire
did a younger you find welcoming and tender?

What about these candles comes
into your body and mind
troubling you with shadows
and taking your focus elsewhere?

I do not wish to know the name
nor the case nor frame of time.
I wish only to know why one might
dwell upon a candlelight
which does not illuminate, only darkens.

Who singed your leaves, little flower?
Who told you roots only grow underground?
Who told you to look for miracles
where only ghosts are found?

O, gentle iris, you are not wrong to be afraid
I do not fault you for folding your petals away
You are not the only one.
I, too, fear the fire. I, too, fear pain.

But I am not a flower
nor lion, nor snail
I do not know when to turn away
nor do I want to.

I don’t want to blow out
the candles of your past lives.
I wish to melt them together with mine
‘round a wick of our braided legs.



Then one day,
the Princess walked

the knight
to the train,

where he kissed her and bid her

Turning away,

his armor unhinged and
fell to the ground,

trailing behind in
a little stream.

The Princess waited.

She waited a long time.

Six months went by and
by then the stream

had grown
into an ocean.

The salty water rose

out of the station,
up the stairs,

into the street where
the Princess stood.

The water brought the armor

to the Princess’ feet.
She gathered the lost pieces

held them to her breast
and walked back to the palace.

In a private chamber

in the cellar of her heart,

she built a statue of the knight
and filled it with

her love
placing the notes he had given her
at his feet.

She brought him roses daily,
and sweet meats, and tea

until one day

she found him crumpled
on the floor. A note

she had never seen before, tucked

in his armored hand.
“I’ll be back” it read.

But the knight never came back.

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