"Song of the Nightlillies" by Jon Midget

Red hair, like leftovers from a dragon's breath,
always made my knees go willy-nilly. So I never understood
what I saw in her: pale silver hair, the scent of
Nightlilies from her breast pocket, and sleek, soft hands.
She was an Elf by the gods! And her kisses tasted
like moonlight glimmering off the snow.

The great poets would have never approved

Sometimes I think the poets would have approved.
For all their talk of "racial integrity" and suspicion
about the half-bloods and all the crazy shenanigans
they can do with their minds, nothing gets them excited
like a hot-blooded adolescent running off to some god-
forsaken island with the girl he's not supposed to be
with and doing exactly what they aren't supposed to do.

"The chickadees have to stick their beaks in the sandpaper,"
my father always said, "and the blissful rooster of hope
never says goodbye." And that goes for runaway elf maidens,
nocturnal and sensual, from where the sun never goes down.

I danced on the ocean tide for her. I think I'd do it
on my hands if she asked me to. I will take her hands,
place them just below my eyebrows, and close my eyes
for a long, long time. Maybe we'll have a little
girl together — a spunky mandrake root who can move
pots and pans just by looking in their direction.

Let the sun gods beat me down
with falling honey suckles, I'll never
change my mind: Asreinil garatumus.
"Let the highest mountains disapprove."
That's how she would translate it from elvish,
and that's how the Nightlilies would sing
their haunting, melancholy songs.