Psyche’s Sisters.

by Ed Taylor.

Wait now, let’s get this straight. Only at night he comes, to, he says, “perform a husband’s duty”; demands that the lights stay off, slinks away at sunrise, and doesn’t even say his name? He tells you he’s got a palace the size of a county, but what he does for a living he won’t tell you? Are you out of your skull? Psyche, we love you, but background check? Blood tests? Pre-nup?

            My every wish come true, he is gentle and tender, and my body’s delight. We lie on clouds, his voice is music, and I love him as husband.

Psyche, Psyche, we want you happy, but is he a face to break a mirror? Did he tunnel out of Attica? Why all this hiding?

            It is a matter of faith, he says.

Hello, earth to Psyche? Baby, for our sake, play it safe―while he sleeps, with this candle, peek, and here, take Mace, in case.

            Hot wax fell on his golden shoulder. He woke, and left me. Love, he said, cannot live without trust. He had wings.

See, see? Didn’t we say he was a freak?

This entry was posted in Summer 2015: This May Be The Last Time.. Bookmark the permalink.

Comments are closed.