On the rooftop of our hotel, purple stage lighting is a cocktail convincing Madrid’s night sky to use the crescent moon as a strap-on.
& coming out of the speakers is Prince’s edgy voice: so spiritual & seductive in its yearning that the sweat emerging on my glass volunteers to chaperone.
But it’s oblivious to Madrid’s night sky: the way she dances close & slow with a dove; the way she savors flight’s tangy aftertaste.
Shadé kisses me, & I’m paranoid her mouth hears my fantasy; let’s just say it involves plenty of sugar & a hot-air balloon.
My hand on Shadé’s waist is an invitation for her sundress to take a hike & buy the owner of this ultra-chic rooftop bar a drink.
His wife, Cindy Crawford, was Prince’s muse for the song, giving this cosmopolitan crowd eargasms— a song he wrote after he & Cindy moved & grooved
on a dancefloor. He sings about how Cindy’s furrymelting little thing awaits him & his six-string, & I’m convinced no woman should know what a man thinks
while they’re dancing unless that man is Prince, who, even after his death, makes the Madrid night sky feel comfortable with taking charge of her sexuality.
In Memoriam: Prince (1958–2016) [End Page 325]
Jonathan Moody is the author of Olympic Butter Gold, winner of the 2014 Cave Canem Northwestern University Press Poetry Prize. He lives in Fresno, Texas, with his wife and son.