White Knight

When I met him, I was astonished as to how beautiful he was. His hair was a brilliant white and his eyes were two smoky blue orbs of shifting shades of blue and green. But the kicker was his skin: darlings, he was WHITER than yours truly. I kid you not. My marmoreal epidermis had been eclipsed so that I appeared nearly brown next to him.

"You're so beautiful," I said.

"Aw, shucks," he said, "you're the one bringing the beauty."

And so it was. Over sandwiches I learned that he had climbed his way up from the trailer park to a high rise, a CEO of a small, but VERY successful company. I was enamored.

We went to Bloomingdale's where I helped him pick out shirts and ties. He admired my taste, and then purchased me a new briefcase.

"You can't just go to work with just an old tote bag," he said.

"All right," I said. "Thank you."

Next he took me to yoga. Which was nice but of course, there were a few things that bothered me. Mainly the religious flava of it all.

Later when I got home I wrote a poem.

Here it is:

White Knight

Puppyish kisses

You are codeine, licking me

away from despair.

A brief release from

My own reality, black

formless, hope devoid.

Effortlessly you

Lift me out of my closet

Into a new space.

It isn't real this

religion you suck into

your pores. It isn't.

Feels good, doesn't it?

This fluff peddled to you for

enlightenment. Peace.

Emotionally

unavailable? Really? You

whose heart is "open"?!

Open for business

The business of the world is

survival-that's all.

Breathing next to you

I am in another world.

One you will not know.

Okay that was the good poem. This one isn't so good, but maybe you'll like it anyway:

The 19th Floor

Soulmate

who lives

in the sky.

Exotic & white

my skin

compares golden

besarme embolden

structurally slight

but very strong

engineered

rightly

daily or

nightly

flow

& ebb

stop & go

yes or no

and oh

yeah:

spoon.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson