the patriarchal society of passionate pursuits

i want to sleep, said he, and play
pianos until they spark, the keys
erupting into shimmers, music
screaming in the air.

i want to cry, said she, and sing
when my babies are seeking
milk, when their tongues are dry
and thirsty, no water for them now.

if i were king, he told me, i would
sink into my throne, point scepters
at my minions, and demand they fetch
me a mattress, so that i could rest.
(they would play bach until i died.)

if i were queen, she told me, i could
feed all my children, endlessly.
they would be such princes, so stately,
ruling the country for just one long drink.
(they would drown in their own tears.)

to rule, in a state of such resistance,
we’ve decided you are all mad. and yet,
as such, your crowns. for passion,
in all its godliness, is as good a trait
as we could hope for, here in america.