What It Is Like: A Poem
Like a white stag in winter, a black hart at night.
Like a cream-colored cup of milk on the counter.
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Like a peasant’s cough
And red meat stuck to a cleaver.
Like the tired scullery maid who leaves for a day.
Like black boils on a body on the street
And the silhouette of a curved beak.
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Like a sullen, sallow-faced maiden who is okay with being rescued by Sir Erick-Garrett.
Like the ugly face of a ribbiting toad.
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Like the Godfrey brothers running away after pushing Abigail off a rock.
Like Wulfric running home to see if Constance brought him cherries.
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Like a tyrant king fearful of his throne being usurped by his bastard son.
Like a poisoned goblet of meade brought to a taste tester and proving its worth.
Like a whore with white makeup caked onto her face crying and screaming about her son.
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Like a king in exile traversing a mountain range to find a greater kingdom.
Like the unexpected savior of a woman chained naked to a rock.
Like a circle of gentry and common folk dancing without end.
Like an irritated dragon that nestles itself against the confines of its cavern and goes back to sleep.
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Like the drunkard who can’t fathom why you don’t drink.
And the once-admirable captain of the Blithe clapping you on the back and speaking a sloshed mix of gibberish.
Like the winsome mayoral candidate who gave too many promises to nobles.
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Like the inquisitor who prays before he tortures the infidel.
Like a dagger under a cloak.
Like the lynx that strikes the oblivious deer.
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Like the sword that gleams under the winter sun.
Like the snow that absorbs the sun’s rays.
Like the dark blue glow of the snow at night
And the footprints in the churchyard.
The hearse, the death knells, the pungent incense.
And the formidable steeple.
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Like the unrolled scroll of parchment bunched up in the entertainer’s hand.
Like the belly jiggle of a fat king laughing at a perfectly timed fart joke.
Like the ropy musculature of a horse’s neck as it cuts towards its quarry with its fat king mounted on top.
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Like a sea serpent rising from the depths of the dirty North Sea on the day of the summer solstice and sinking its fangs into the necks of the plucky orphans who secured the gem of Queen Guinevere out from the hidden passage at the foot of a thundering waterfall.
Like the roguish wizard who tricked his way into the great hall and made the queen’s crown vanish.
Like the meaningless search for Anna’s missing turquoise gown
And the halfhearted rally to search the castle for the queen’s missing jewels.
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Like a priest who recognizes the sound of your voice.
Like the hunter’s arrow that pierces the heart of an elk.
Like the wheelwright in the pillory with a spinal deformity.
Like a headless rooster flailing.
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Like the hypnotic gaze of a tawny owl.
Like the rolling eyes of a neighbor fainting at the sound of thunder.
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Like horses galloping in a field toward a trough.
Like the fluid mass of starlings in flight.
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Like a stone skipping on the clear lake of a glen.
Like a silent snowfall at night as children sleep in a cramped room.
Like the silvery face of the moon and the ticking of a clock unerring in its quietly stated measure of time.
Like a stately and elegant moose running through snow.
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Like chicken bones thrown to the king’s dogs.
Like the darting run of a retriever toward a fallen pheasant.
Like the accidental shotgun blast of an overconfident hunter at his in-law.
And his misplaced medallion for valiance.
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Like a blanket that was used for illicit sex in the back of a wagon in a marshy wood.
Like a baby shoe found in the mud in March next to one perfectly preserved wolf track.
Like the papoose you made using your shirt to safely transport an infant you found on top of a mountain.
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Like drinking milk on a muddy riverbank and waiting to kiss Veronica.
Like holding a hand to her cheek and leaving a muddy mark.
Like getting pushed into a river and running away from a hissing goose.
And then lying there alone and laughing.
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Like the kid who ran back from the square and told us about public executions.
Like the death scream of a rabbit.
Like Peter, the boy with a cleft palate who stole our apples.
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Like a black hart hiding in junipers.
Like a white stag running from hunters.
Like the four of spades
And its invisible jump from one hand to the other.
