According to Yellow Bird

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.