Tuesday, February 10, 2009

the grimm's fairy tale ending

he ran swiftly, as he had in his
youth, he ran thru the gateposts
and so the yoke remained anchored
around his neck, but the dust
has made it lighter, he's able to lift
his head and far in the distance
he sees the mountains. the butterfly
in his ear urges him on with a song
of green rye, bright light, the air's
tenor at the mountaintop. his cloven hooves
barely touch the ground, her dust
is a blanket between them and gravity.
she singing of rooftops and the cold snows
of winter as he approaches the manger and he's
reminded of the farmer who comes each night
with hay and a friendly word, the way his coat
stays dry under those eaves. he slows
and says to her, let's stop
here for the evening, turns into
the doorway. the creak of the yoke
as he bends to the trough drowns
her weakened protests, her song
is like wind thru the grass . we'll
rest now, he tells her, you're tired
and i'm tired, this yoke is heavier
than i thought. sleep, yes, sleep
my little miracle. during the night
the dust falls from his head, from
between the ridges of his horns
from his nose. in the morning he wakes
to find a pile of colors beside the husk
of a caterpillar and thinks how odd it is
that there is a piece of his yoke
missing, wonders if the caterpillar
feasted and, not being a termite, purged
and the missing slice of wood
is the colorful dust on the floor.

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