[P] golden child; lion boy

[Adonai]

A D O N A I



—

T

here is so much of him to look at—the gazelle-like black horns; the brilliant gold to brilliant white; the lion's tail; the fact that he is taller, much taller—that when I reach the well I look to the bucket first, teetering with water on the well's lip, before angling my eyes towards his. 

They are a brilliant blue, almost green, like the sea. Or how I imagine the sea would look: is it anything different than an oasis? 

The poets seem to think so.

“We're not known for our tolerance," I shrug, and I do not bother to hide how I am surveying him, my eyes dark beneath my white lashes, like I am surveying a sculpture with its leg chiseled elegantly off. Every fracture beloved. Dozens of them are hidden jealously, white marble bodies, in our halls.

Scars litter his skin like puckered stars, and I am suddenly aware of how smooth my own is. How misleading. The damage is all inside. 

“Though it seems the trend as of late for foreigners to sit upon our thrones. Perhaps," and again I smile, though this time it is wan, “you too have been lured by our golden crown?"

I am joking, I think. 

I think he knows that I am a prince.

“I don’t believe in such wives’ tales. Do you?” And it is the way he says it: do you?—like there is a trap buried deep in the question, though not of the sort that would hurt—that ghosts the lightest of tremors down my spine. My eyes narrow.

I ought to feel irritation in how little choice he has allowed me in my answer. 

(Say yes, and dub yourself: believer of wives tales. The horror of boys groomed to be kings. It reminds me of the games of truth or dare I played with Pilate as a boy. To pick truth was to confess: I am afraid of your dare. Wave a white flag before you are dead.)

Instead, I laugh. “I don't." We are all going to die anyway. It is not a comforting thought until it is.

He tosses the water over himself indulgently, and droplets sizzle against my skin. He stands in a bed of tiny blue flowers, his shadow a tower, and I move closer to see their petals. Daisies.

I stare when he asks me if I want any, the cursed well water, until I catch myself and angle my brow just so. “Sure." Yet I stand there dumbly, unsure of the extent of his offer. Is he getting it for me? I could get it myself, but I will not be able to lift the bucket. The thought is tormenting.

I sweep my hair back against my neck, and amble forwards until daisies brush my ankles. “If you get it for me." 

So I make it a dare.





In the summer haze:
Behind magnolias,
Faint sheets of lightning.

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