NARUHINA: EPILOGUE TO THE CONFESSION
I.
Reeled in from a drying womb
a double-barrelled oyster of nobility
I was an instant queen
of near-supreme periphery
Observe my father bid me
the playground that paralleled
our court like a placebo
Heed young anarchy's scurrying bazaar
and altogether shun the banished silhouette
twirling on his rubber idiot-throne
like an unemployed jester
Father-free the day
the simplest multitude
denied my pearl vision membership
I was accepted by the Fatherless
Hyperventilation passed for entertainment
on the royal visit
but jester intervention robbed the banquet
of its punchbowl gown polished
with the grimy spike of spit and tears
I was saved by the boy
who didn't look me in the eyes
II.
Classroom acoustics swelled
thick into theatrical fidelity
behind the orange swagger of neon stitiches
corralling his soft white shoulders and back
in spontaneous combustion of show-and-tell
He was my first movie
The token jock that would valedictate
the class of the reddening sky
The turmoil changer
of prophecies driven awry
We were all his dramatic irony
III.
With sly amusement the desert night
smirks at the platter of tease and torture
served up by its solar sister
before time's amethyst alottment
nudges into its illumined office
and blotches agendas and evident outcomes
with its rubber stamp of bluntness
A desert-mooned field trip
found me matriculating in a waterfall
uncharting a galaxy of timorous flesh
with crystal bead constellations
sliding down my pale firmament
Maybe a night's dream
jigsawed his surroundings
sleepwalking him by the bladder
to the ridge of my virginal fountain
Who would I in royal vanity be
to rob him frontally of sleepwalk bliss
with decibel direction?
Should all young comedies of error
evaporate and curdle into horror
when a hidden girl's soft hair swivels
and reveals a ghost?