Gilded Milk

A Poem By LoriAnn // 3/13/2010

 
Formidable, he sits
Enthroned on his golden seat
His golden pelt gleaming
In the golden light of candles set in—
What else?
Golden sconces
 
Undaunted, she sits
Perched upon an ottoman
Fingering harp-strings
Flowing golden notes
Her eyes ache from so much
Gold
 
“You sigh?”
He asks, his voice a golden grumble
 
“No. Well, that is…
Yes, I did sigh.
Why must everything be so gold?”
 
“Is it not to your liking?”
Surprisingly concerned
He leans forward
Golden eyes intent
 
“I…”
She strums an aimless chord
“I am used, my lord,
To simpler things.
The green of fresh grass
Blue of the sky
Silver of a star
Red of a…”
 
“Yes?”
 
Another sigh.
“Of a rose.”
 
“Ah. But you care not
For my rich gold,
My gilt mirrors,
My engraved goblets,
My jeweled baubles?”
 
She gives a pretty shrug,
And finally meets his gaze
“I do not dislike,”
She admits, a dainty finger
Stroking her rose-soft gown
“But it goes down hard,
Like a chocolate cake—
You need simple milk
To wash it down.”
 
“Ah.”
 
They sit, not speaking
She brushes her fingers across
The gilded strings
And silently concedes
Her admiration of their
Golden tones.
 
He stands.
“I will return.”
 
She watches him go, puzzled
His bulky form oddly graceful
Melting into the candle-shadows
She plays a simple melody
To pass the time, but stops
And rolls her eyes
This country tune was not made
For such rich strings.
 
“Here,”
His deep, dark voice
Emerges from the shadows,
And he holds out to her a gift
His eyes masked with indifference
But eager, like a little boy
He hopes she will like it.
 
She takes the gift, and smiles.
A laugh burbles in her throat,
And she lifts it to her lips:
 
Fresh milk,
In a golden cup.