The Prince of Sugar

Vera Kroms

                            I have been            
the summoning lip                       
of a Flemish hunger, a school          
of limber certainty, the wit               
inside the horizontal.
                            Old enough       
to need me, you arrive                  
adoring the waste                       
of logic. The three tests              
of loving align your skirts             
just so. An x-ray
                            reveals a small fish 
who cannot sleep. I know               
the future,                             
all of them.
                            I know                    
how a bin of coins                
can chill a man, how ordinary           
is silk when the worm is                   
wearing it.
                            I will take you           
five letters beyond                     
annunciation. I will still             
the hive in your chest.                
This is my specialty.
This is necessary harm.