The prince planted the woman in red
amidst the spring sorghum.
That year the sun struck the moon
down to Earth
and stalks grew as high as the baobabs.
The woman seemed to disappear
in her cage of grass
and the prince told her to whistle
so he could find her.
But she kept her legs as straight as the grains,
swayed when they swayed,
and yellow bird watched as her toes
became worms digging into the soil
each growing its own corpuscular
universe of possibility
reaching beneath and beyond
the prince’s entrapment.
Even the moon
glowed from the deception.
We joined yellow bird
serenading the siren’s song
while she nonchalantly
rolled a net in her arms
the prince mistook for a bridal gown.
Each undulation of fabric
was like a heartbeat
drawing an infant
to his mother’s bosom.
The prince tried to stop himself
at the fence he built
around his petite rose
but his heart spilled forth
like juice from a ripe mango
crushed by the weight
of an elephant.
Like a spider sensing prey
in the far reaches of its web
the woman flicked her wrists
and the net dropped over the prince
crushing him into mulch
to feed her earthen oven
of smoldering darkness
and the fireflies
exploded with joy
and we ate
their delight.
The moon returned to the sky
relieved summer was finally over
but the lady in red
kept whistling her tune.
The photo is of Rigaud Benoit’s wonderful painting, Choucoune [Yellow Bird].
