Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Small Visitor

I wanted the unicorn for my own pet,

but my mother made the unicorn

her own. My mother was greedy this way. 

Magic often visited me--and my mother readily

swooped it away. The unicorn was tiny, 

I could hold it in my hand. 

Before my mother intercepted this, 

I asked the unicorn why it came to Los Angeles, 

and how far it was from home. 

Never you mind, child, where I reside; for now, 

I'm by your side, to keep you safe at night, 

to ward off intruders, like Charles Manson

or your father. My mother didn't know

she was a thief. I don't blame her for snatching

my unicorn. She might've thought it was one of my stuffed

animals, needing washing. She washed and washed. 

And still, nothing was ever clean. 

Even the unicorn--real as they come--I found

smudged, stuffed in a box with photo albums

last year. I placed the unicorn on my breakfast table; 

next to my bowl of oatmeal and raisins,

and he threw back his head, neighed 

and galloped away, testing his legs,

which had seen better days. 

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