by Eric Lochridge
Against my father’s kingdom,
I had not rebelled.
I was dutiful,
obedient until he died
believing without cause
I would humiliate him
among his countrymen.
I held my resentment
in a closed fist
for years after his death.
Then
I emigrated to a far country
he told me did not exist,
a land of extravagance
where I drink fine wines
and barrel-aged beers.
My friends mix me cocktails.
They mix sidecars.
They mix old fashioneds,
rums and Cokes.
Cups that runneth over.
We cavort, we carouse,
we sing our tipsy revelries
to the sparkled face of the night.
There is a woman here
who will do anything for me.
She sat with me while he died.
She throws bejeweled arms
around me, whispers hotly
into my ear. Her breath,
her hands, her nimble tongue
reassure me about the choice I made.
It is a decadent life
but not an uncommon one
in this kingdom
my father tried to hide from me.
I am not lost.
I am never going home.
::
Eric Lochridge (he/him) is the author of My Breath Floats Away From Me (FutureCycle Press, 2022) and three chapbooks. He is an MFA student in the Rainier Writing Workshop. His poems have appeared in DIAGRAM, Okay Donkey, Whale Road Review, Moist, and Anti-Heroin Chic, among others. Find him online at ericedits.wordpress.com.
Image: Adam Jaime
ID: an old-fashioned cocktail being poured.
Psaltery & Lyre 