The Time I Saw Prince in the Adult Section of the Comic Shop

By Seth Peterson

I was, technically, not in the adult section,

not an adult—& he was no longer Prince.

This was around the time he’d completed

his metamorphosis from sex symbol to sex god.

So ineffable, so ambiguous that he no longer belonged

with the exclusive group of mononyms, like Seal

or Madonna, & could only be summoned by an image.

Yet, there he was—a sweep of sunglasses

& feathery hair, paisley-patterned collar

sprouting upward from his raincoat

—inches from the rookie cards & comics,

which looked a little sad beside that long, mysterious curtain.

I was nothing like him. This was around the time

of the sixth-grade dance, when,

if things went right, I would ask a girl.

If things went wrong, I would spend the evening

downing cans of raspberry iced tea

& playing video games in my best friend’s basement.

Funny thing is, what I remember most about that night

isn’t Prince. It’s my friend & I 

repeating Did you see that? Was it him? 

Dumfounded & stumbling outside, nearly into 

a wide, sleek limousine, idling

at the curb like the embodiment of everything

we wanted—a heavy, sexual black, still glistening wet

with raindrops. What I remember is leering 

through the window at this vision I had of adulthood 

& seeing only a reflection of myself, those eyes

ogling enviously my life. Not Prince. Not even 

the image of Prince, but the image of a boy 

inside a black limousine, otherwise empty inside.

About the Author

Seth Peterson is an emerging writer, researcher, and physical therapist in Tucson, Arizona. His poems are published or forthcoming in Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Tinderbox, and elsewhere. He serves as an Associate Editor for JOSPT Cases and teaches with The Movement Brainery.