By Ed Taylor
Wait now, let’s get this straight. He comes only at night to, he says, “perform a husband’s duty,” demands that the lights stay off, slinks away at sunrise, and won’t even say a name? He tells you he’s got a palace the size of a county, but what he does for a living he won’t tell you? Are you out of your skull? Psyche, we love you, but that is nuts. Background check? Blood tests? Pre-nup?
My every wish come true, he is gentle and tender, and my body’s delight. We lie on clouds, his voice is music, and I love him as husband.
Psyche, Psyche, we want you happy, but maybe it’s a face to break a mirror? Tats of Lorraine, Lourdes, and Rita bleached off his arms? Did he tunnel out of Attica? Why all this hiding?
It is a matter of faith, he says.
Hello, earth to Psyche? Baby, for our sake, play it safe―while he sleeps, with this candle, peek―and here, take Mace in case.
Hot wax fell on his golden shoulder. He woke, and left me. Love, he said, cannot live without trust. He had wings.
See? See? Didn’t we say he was a freak?
Ed Taylor is the author of the novel Theo (forthcoming in 2014) and the poetry collection Idiogest. His work has appeared most recently in North American Review, Mississippi Review Online, Louisville Review, Willow Springs, Slipstream and Gargoyle.