The Love Of A Good Woman and The Admiring Eyes Of A Child

You call me over,


and I live for a little while in your lap.


Your fingers find a home around my waist,


and you stare out every passer by,

just in case they decide to enquire.


Frank finds imaginary friends down on the carpet,


and I stare,


stuck to you like glue,


never in the mood to let go, or to be let go of,


and it’s all good,

Daddy,

you know that it’s all good,


because we made a pact,


and we made vows,


and we made a child,


with brown eyes like mine,


and your country’s passport and accent.


I cry,


inside of your arms every night,


because I finally made it out of the wild wilderness,


no longer the mistress of melancholy.


I am a free woman,


voluntarily trapped,


grateful waterfalls from my pretty face,


as I feel your impatient fingertips,

drumming along my waist.


Don’t wait, if you don’t want to.


You know I’d do anything,


when I’m so indebted to you.


You call me your Princess.


You are my preciosa.


You are a cult leader,


and here I am,


ready to die,


ready to take a life,


for your love.


You tell all your friends that I’m glamorous,

like Marilyn,


said you were sick of seeing me in love with sycophants,


so you just had to make me yours,


and, so,

of course I was,


keeping you close to my heart as I sleep,


waking up in our private matriarchy,


you call me over,


and I live forever in your lap.