they dredged icarus up from the sea today; wings bedraggled, tangled in the nets of those who tried to raise his body before. but he would not ascend; he learned his lesson.
I am there for a prince; not for her.
I am there for golden feathers and indigo eyes, and a softness that files my jagged edges into something smooth, into a shape I can weather. But when I see her, I gravitate toward the disaster I know we create by colliding. I ought to leave her alone; but when she sends the child away, she evokes my wicked curiosity. And, besides--my prince is occupied.
(That, in and of itself, incites a pang of jealousy I have no right feeling, but feel nonetheless, like a barb in the flesh).
(And that, in and of itself, transforms me into something monstrous; into a man that I cannot take to Adonai, not tonight, not when I see the lyre strapped to his shoulders).
Instead, I take the wickedness I feel to Elena; instead, I delve through the crowd and find my way to her. The child, of course, is gone; and I cannot erase the image of them side-by-side from my mind, mother and daughter. They are like images of one another.
I wonder if it is a blessing, or a curse, that the child is so painfully Elena’s. I wonder if it is a blessing, or a curse, the father does not seem to hold much likeness at all, whoever he may be.
“Elena,” I greet her, with a warm familiarity. “This is the last place I would have expected to see you.” I have always been masterful with my tone, with my rhetoric: and even though I do not comment on the child explicitly, the awareness is there, a tense undercurrent to the comment itself. I did not expect to see you with a child, here.
If she were someone else, I might have asked her to dance. But I don’t. I simply regard her with quiet, knowing eyes. Then, I let a smile edge my mouth. I say, “I am here to impress a prince, but I am not sure how.”
The confession comes unbidden, but genuine. I shrug my shoulders, almost dismissively, almost as if it doesn’t matter--
And really, does it?
I look over the crowd, searching for the girl. But she is already gone. From here, I cannot see Adonai, either--and, despite the crowd, it is only Elena and I.
I am there for golden feathers and indigo eyes, and a softness that files my jagged edges into something smooth, into a shape I can weather. But when I see her, I gravitate toward the disaster I know we create by colliding. I ought to leave her alone; but when she sends the child away, she evokes my wicked curiosity. And, besides--my prince is occupied.
(That, in and of itself, incites a pang of jealousy I have no right feeling, but feel nonetheless, like a barb in the flesh).
(And that, in and of itself, transforms me into something monstrous; into a man that I cannot take to Adonai, not tonight, not when I see the lyre strapped to his shoulders).
Instead, I take the wickedness I feel to Elena; instead, I delve through the crowd and find my way to her. The child, of course, is gone; and I cannot erase the image of them side-by-side from my mind, mother and daughter. They are like images of one another.
I wonder if it is a blessing, or a curse, that the child is so painfully Elena’s. I wonder if it is a blessing, or a curse, the father does not seem to hold much likeness at all, whoever he may be.
“Elena,” I greet her, with a warm familiarity. “This is the last place I would have expected to see you.” I have always been masterful with my tone, with my rhetoric: and even though I do not comment on the child explicitly, the awareness is there, a tense undercurrent to the comment itself. I did not expect to see you with a child, here.
If she were someone else, I might have asked her to dance. But I don’t. I simply regard her with quiet, knowing eyes. Then, I let a smile edge my mouth. I say, “I am here to impress a prince, but I am not sure how.”
The confession comes unbidden, but genuine. I shrug my shoulders, almost dismissively, almost as if it doesn’t matter--
And really, does it?
I look over the crowd, searching for the girl. But she is already gone. From here, I cannot see Adonai, either--and, despite the crowd, it is only Elena and I.
