Every Sunday I post an original poem.
“I used to have a unicorn.”
It was a strange thing to say in the morning,
But she said it anyway, talking into the pillow,
And her voice was sad, and it caught on the words,
Even as she caught my hand.
It was an artificial pond, with no
soft grass dissolved by water; concrete walls
and tended trees with leaves like waxwork toys
made space for weekend rowing. Strollers ringed
the lake and children pranced and played at war.
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From heights we learn that nothing’s very high.
These seams on earth, as raised as stitching, are
The tyranny of gravity made wry.
This poem isn’t about what the title says, of course. Even though my family went through this, I don’t actually have any memory of it; it all happened when we were quite young.
