by Mignon Ariel King

I am waiting for something I write to testify.
When I cannot hear rain, I am waiting for rain.
After I’ve seen snow and felt it, I run my first
footprints through it with absolutely no regard
for poets who wake later and want to be first.

Nobody else is waiting for any of this, I know.
That blatant, white-tornado in a sandy dervish
does not, however, prevent my strict vow to wait.
I am waiting for people to stop telling me not
to give up on finding a handsome prince. I find

that they’ve read different tales than I. Isn’t he
— the prince, that is – supposed to be the seeker?
My job is only to be found or not. I am waiting
to be found by some higher purpose. I wait eons
for the weight of my waiting to be lifted, and I’d

greatly prefer some sign here. Higher purposes
must, logically, be dispensed from higher spirits.
They must know how to write. Write a sign, please,
O higher spirits! I am waiting and waiting, slowly
but surely. Yet I move a lot. Perhaps that’s the rub.

IMAGE: “Air Mail” by Les Cunliffe. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mignon Ariel King is a lifelong Massachusetts resident and third-generation New Englander. She writes poetry, memoir, and novella. King holds a Master of Arts in English degree from Simmons College and identifies as a womanist. She is the publisher of Hidden Charm Press (and its online journal MoJo!) and Tell-Tale Chapbooks.