If only Rilke had been right,
and every princess that needed saving
really was a dragon in her own right;
the world might
have been free of spite so much earlier, a story built on might
and righteous fury, the mightiest jury
convened to ensure Hastinapur's continuity;
and instead, I have had to become my own prince and surety,
my own guarantee
that no matter what happens to me
there is a happily ever after that allows me to be
who I am: Kristang, gay and non-binary;
that allows me to say, with finality:
I am married to my prince, and that's that.
Undoubtedly;
what a fantasy, Kevin Martens, to dream of a world where
a poem can transform a story into reality.
Who said there was any doubt?
It is the truth, the herald, the alacrity
that matters; the pearls that I let fall from my wedding gown, silly
me racing to find something that matters at midnight, between
a crown, and the sea where it was thrown into the deep:
I emerge from the ocean's thankless floors,
not quite happily, or ever to be a father:
but certainly, more or less, at peace.
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