Blue-eyed boy

My blue-eyed boy

Cerulean denim and sea-eyed boy

Draped over his spaceship

He has worn a dent in the cushions of my rocking chair by the window

Both of which much prefer him to me

“Whatchyou up to, Baby?” I call from my book

Watchin the cars, he whispers after a pause

And where do we go when we die?

I watch him shyly and closely to see

If he accepts what Before Him absorbed without query

For I know he is different, my turquoise-eyed boy

He takes up small space in my chair by the window

Nodding and smiling with rocking wood rhythms

That press into the carpet and make not a sound

And he giggles at peace with my recited-book-lies

Blue-eyed boy

My blue-eyed boy

Cerulean denim and sea-eyed boy

Floating through his tangled-fog days

To the rhythm of aces and small hearts and spades

This boy with the scar

Proof human-made

But my sky-eyed boy does not mind his brand

I do not ask why

I will not understand

I have taken enough from this tiny man

As numbers parade in his head with slow patience

I point to small words and invite his acquaintance

But he graciously yawns and turns to the sky

Speaking of sevens, crosses and the saucer he knows

He left somewhere nearby

But cannot re-find

Follow me, please.

Come on, hurry up!

We will go to a place

I think I know of.

Do you like history?

I know that you do.

Who are you? Please speak.

We will nod at your stories, if you make them brief.

Do you like battles?

I think that you should.

Do you? Please tell me.

We will shrug if you show us some bloodshed or swords.

Not a battle with swords, or with maces or clubs…

Not too long ago, either, but gruesome and cold.

Did you know?

May we go?

Please, stay. You will like this.

Here, where I point, sat a girl with two wings.

Not a faerie or angel, but One with Two Wings.

We do not believe you, and we are quite bored.

She could fly.

Could she fly?

She could fly.

Did she fly?

Oh, she flew!

She would fly.

No one believed her, of course.

And she was embarrassed to say.

When asked an excuse for her wind-tumbled hair,

Or her wrinkled flight clothes,

She would mumble and laugh,

And then look away.

We would believe her.

You would not believe her.

…

One day, while she sat…

Not flying?

Not flying.

Not now.

… A terrible being approached with sweet words

Of t-shirts and red wine and paint for one’s face.

As it crooned to her ear, it ever so gently

Peeled her wings off

And pocketed them.

What did she do?

Oh? She did not notice.

She did not notice?

She was blinded by t-shirts and red wine and paint.

Oh.

Days went by.

Days?

Months went by.

Months!

Half a year.

She is the one who is looking. See?

Here she comes!

She is the one with the tight shirt and jeans.

Look at her circling- what did she want here?

She used to sit…

She thinks. 

Why did she sit? And what did she do?

She used to be special…

She thinks.

Sometimes she thinks she was someone of note.

She used to be something…

With purpose and skill.

Now, as she strokes the strange silk in her pocket,

Guilty and burdened, she turns away-

She is the one with the tight shirt and jeans?

She is the one who could never quite grasp it-

How they paint their faces and torture their hair-

But she watches them softly and grows ever closer

To their easy nonchalance,

Ignoring the low, moaning call from her pocket,

Which forms accusations she covers in coughs:

Murder. Assassin. Liar.

Savior.

A wrong was committed,

A bit at a time,

And, eventually, They caught on.

So many had been hurt,

But They vowed no many more

Would feel the sting of Hate.

So They gathered together their rainbow of colors,

And proceeded to mix with care

His tales with her troubles

To make some Deep Purple;

A reaction that they called “Plan”.

They donned their new Colors,

Their Fuchsias and Greens,

And They marched through the Hate with a Roar,

But the Hate,

It was Black,

And pushed at them back,

Staining their vibrance of yore.

Rainbow Ants on a pallet of mud, They were.

Close your eyes and open your mind

When staring at hearts as dark,

For if you think closely,

And breathe

Very slowly,

And feel the Quelled Hues

Attempting

To Spark.

Epilogue:

     In the year of Queen Guinevere’s execution, after the secret of her affair with Sir Launcelot was made public, there arose a great need for the highest tower of the castle of Camelot. Having a large oriel window facing southeast and such a high vantage point, it was ideal for defense against the Barbarians.

     Four young pages were assigned the task of clearing the very top room of the tower from whatever evidence it held of its previous occupant, the blind Lady Cecilia, who was also rumored to be slightly insane. Many nobles were of the opinion that Lady Cecilia was a witch of great favor in the queen’s eyes, and that her familiars could be heard strolling along the cold, stone floor all hours of the day.

     Since Lady Cecilia’s death, a great stench had crept down the winding tower stairs until it became almost unbearable even to the shepherds whose sheep grazed just outside the tower’s entrance. The boys ordered to empty Cecilia’s room joked about the many somethings that had obviously died and begun to rot in the room. However, when the door was edged open, though the stench multiplied unbearably, causing all the boys to wretch uncontrollably, the only things of note that were found included a small handheld mirror, a spying glass, a spot worn smooth on the windowsill, a number of books, obviously stolen from the nearby abbey, and a pair of battered eyeglasses.