I’ve listened to Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade 

twice in the last forty-eight hours so don’t dare ignore the sign 

and must get this poem started or lose it 

as I’ve lost so many in my life,  and thinking of the princess

I wonder if I could write one poem a night for three years

to save my life, or even my soul.

Poor Scheherazade, whose mother told her a thousand times 

to avoid men, especially princes 

because all they want is to get between your legs,

trying not only to stay alive by telling stories one after another, 

but preserving her virginity to boot 

which her mother never explained the importance of doing, 

but it couldn’t have been all that important 

because most of the women Scheherazade knew 

weren’t virgins, vestal or otherwise.

So she began her first story, 

“Once upon a time there was a handsome prince,” 

and when she paused to gather her next line 

he simply leaned back on his silk pillows, 

closed his eyes and said, “Go on.” 

So she wove a romantic tale of love and adventure 

and they both heard music

which Rimsky-Korsakov heard later in 1888

and had the presence of mind to put down on staff lines, 

the same music I basked in twice in two days 

though I’ve never been a prince  

and was never even called a prince of a man.

1,001 stories are a lot of stories to recite

so when her mouth grew dry she requested water 

and was given wine and a few dates 

and was thus able to continue, 

remembering her mother had cautioned her 

that girls lost their virginity on dates 

which didn’t make much sense to her 

until inadvertently telling a lightly erotic story  

while reclining at the prince’s feet 

she felt the heat of desire for the first time 

so began to enjoy the challenge 

realizing she would be glad to tell 

more than the 1,001 stories he requested, 

and when after three years the prince told her to stop, 

she declined.

***