I went for the job because it was as far from everything
that I could imagine and then some roads further.
I knew I’d get it. So far in my life
I’ve got pretty much everything I’ve wanted.
Sometimes that hasn’t turned out so well –
the little fish in my belly
reminds me every morning
I shouldn’t have wanted Mad Wolf Dan
quite as much as I did.
I’ll have to deal with that soon
but for now, I’m happy to step off the cook’s cart
into my new home.
And then I see him.
He’s standing on a makeshift stage
his arms open as though welcoming us
as though we are his cherished guests
not a prisoner, the new cook and a handful of guards.
He’s stripped to the waist -
a good sight, sure -
and he’s covered in waves.
They curl and tumble across his chest.
They break on his shoulder blades.
thunder down his forearms
and foam at his wrists.
Here, in the mountains, the prison guard
wears a constant homesick reminder
tattooed in blues
inked into his skin.
My hand reaches out.
More than anything I want to rest it
against that crash of cool water
that licks his navel.
I have to shut my eyes.
Clasp my hands together
to stop their wanton movement.
When I open them again,
I’ve shuffled forward
right to the front and he’s saying words
I can’t hear properly to me.
I look up into his indigo eyes.
I bob my cook’s curtsy
but I keep looking
bold as you like.
I’d swim in those eyes
Well, it appears that the Tuesday Poem readers are going to be subjected, poem by poem, to my latest venture! If you don't want to read a fantasy in verse, hop over to the the Tuesday poem blog where you'll find a diversity of wonderful poems linked to the hub. The featured editor, Claire Beynon has posted a haunting poem by South African poet, Ruben Mowszowski.