"King," "Queen," etc.

I love airports as they are: stinking, octagonal, full
of men at the end of their rope. The house I live in

is a vinyl-sided box, a blue not robin's egg, but straight up
paint. In my well-swept place, I water the scale-infested

orchids, I hear my heavy neighbors. I like my baths
encroaching, hot, unlike the sea; my wine sharp and apples

sharp, gasoline lung-dulling. Once, I had a lover
whose world was fantasy, he imagined everything royal.

The house had to be a castle with moats, in the water
he sought threatening teeth. Hovering over me

as though a battle raged, exhausting with his bombastic
anthems and chase. He's a world traveler these days,

with spun-sugar girls, ghosts making anything he wants
from wind. I worry about the pale boy, this costumed silly—

because I believe simple years will outdo his grand-
standing. We'll all swallow the real and terrible dirt.

Copyright © 2008 Alison Powell All rights reserved
from New Orleans Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission