King

(NB. Fathers feel things, too. They were just taught not to).

Who left your chest hard like those wet bony sand dunes?
Who said he’d be back and left you with a beer in a pub?
And the sounds of old men rack together and cut as if
He took a grater and sliced the voice chords of age.

There was a king, once.
He had a heart like a wolf.
The teeth he bore when hurt,
His own independence lathered him like soap bubbles. He sparkled.
He wouldn’t wash himself of his personality for you.

That King, well he had a daughter.
She sold herself to her writing.
And there was a mutual discomfort.
She should pursue something better with her time. He should be supportive.
And he would pay, he would pay. And she would resist, she would resist.

But she, like him,
Had the heart of a wolf.
She grated his howls into shavings which became soft words.
And then she would form sentences with them.
And it would fit, as Cinderella’s glass slipper did.

I have a story to tell you,
Where a King is brought onto his knees,
The land he owns, the jewels he sneezes,
The kisses he gives to his child
Drop into heavy lips of gold.

His teardrops as rich as the Sun.
I feel for him.
I feel for you Father.
Larger than life King.
You cry and it is an event that pierces the stars.

Only you could put me on my shoulders to touch them.
But like flowers,
I do not pick stars.
Like teardrops,
I pick them out of the King’s eyes.

The King couldn’t stop his daughter
Rolling away from him like the tide.
How can you order a force like the sea to return to you,
How can you tell loners to stay with the crowd?

Wolves, their silver hair, their gold eyes,
Wear the two in the eyes of the moon
And carry the night between the gaps of their teeth,
It rains inside the King’s mouth,
And he swallows sadness as if he were cutting a puppy.

I left his chest hard like the wet bony sand dunes.
I said I’d be back and left him alone with a beer in a pub.
He doesn’t drink, but if he’d laugh if he were bought one.
And the sounds of his friends rack together and cut him with advice as if
I had taken a grater and sliced the voice chords of old age.

Bless your father, little princesses,
Little cubs,
They fell in love once, and held you in their teardrops,
Smiles are wonderful as when you first opened your eyes
To this cruel world.

Tell him you love him,
Be strong,
Where he will be weak.
He will need you,
And you will thread him through the eye of your needle tongue

And say things you don’t mean.
Swim through water to escape him
And kiss the Sun as he kisses you.
That was something she did,
This Selfish Daughter,

She left.
With her ruby-words,
As red as his pain,
As scarlet as his wounds,
And all the world he had given to her,

Became dusk,
She didn’t know truly until now,
How much she needed her best friend.
Her father is her key.
And her tears fell like his,

Heavy teardrops as rich as the Sun.

“What the hell have I done?”
And so the story goes that weather reunited them
Days gave them their kisses,
Her dreams bloomed like roses,
And the King and Daughter had budded in a thawed snow.

They do not howl.
Their independence is theirs.
They only wash themselves of themselves for each other.
Teardrops can do this.
You just have to catch your father watching you sleep,

He loves you.

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