he had a vase
that sat near his bed
and he filled it up with the wine
that fell from his tongue
a wine that made everyone drunk
everyone who heard it
everyone except me
I was the only one he ever wanted
he'd call for me
and he was the king, so I would go
I could sit by his bed
and drink his poison wine until
the soft gold rays of sunlight
shone through the window
illuminating his weaknesses
the cracks in the vase
and the lace of my nightgown.
I was the threat all along
it was why he was afraid to love me
because I could drink his wine
and not climb willingly into his bed
a death trap
like falling softly into the claws
of a dragon.
I would sit simply by him
on the floor
while he stared up the canopy
above his head
a silken vision of sleeping doves
and weeping women.
I told him stories
my voice was never honey or wine
it was water— life-giving water
rainwater and seawater and water
he listened and he drank
like a man parched
I did not climb into the death
that was his arms
but he, unwittingly,
fell into mine.
// "UNTIL THE LION LEARNS TO WRITE, THE STORIES OF THE HUNT WILL ALWAYS GLORIFY THE HUNTERS."
AND I HAVE LEARNED TO WRITE.
