One is slain in hand-to-hand combat; one crushes the other's skull with a rock only as large and glittery as his pain. Then there's the one who tricks the nearly blind patriarch into handing over something called a birthright—all for a bit of stew, a coat of fur, some proof that they, in their one-eyed misery, believe equates to love. And in those dark tales we like to think of as part of a happy childhood, stepsisters tear the clothes off the youngest daughter, push a broom and pail into her hands. Haven't you wept alone in the garden under a tree whose wind-burnished voice reminds you of the one who never stopped caring? Hiding in the leaves, all day the birds call and answer, answer and call. Though each has their own song, they resemble one another.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
