I’m lying here on the grass
of Joe Creason Park, not Camelot
with a man who can climb a jungle gym
while wearing a mail shirt
a man whose sword’s pommel-stone
is the size of my palm
a man who was shocked at my immodesty --
the hole in my jeans shows
a naughty glimpse of pale scarred knee --
and even more shocked when he learned
I’d cut it mucking about in a cave;
his jaw dropped when, hiking through the woods,
I tripped and swore better than he
when he found that same tree root.
In the face of all the evidence to the contrary,
he calls me Lady Cynthia.
I call him Lance.
and now my head is lying on his stomach
(first I had to reassure him that he wouldn’t
have to marry me, for I’m no Elaine)
while he looks through my dog-eared copy
of Le Morte d’Arthur
and tells me all the things Malory got wrong
and by now he’s not bothering
to censor the blood and guts
we’re having a fine light conversation
until he stumbles over Guinevere’s name
I feel the deep breath he takes to steady himself
and tell him that if he wants to talk, I’m right here
but he brushes it off
because after all, I am just a woman
Back to Stuff I Wrote.
© Cynthia 2002.