Member Poem

He preferred boys to girls:
mud-footed, grubby boys,
who caught fish bare-handed
and dammed the stream with rocks.

He watched in silence
from a stone's throw away,
his coat the color of reeds,
his mane a shifting shadow

as he studied the bruises
on one boy's face
before allowing his coat
to lighten to silver --

the boy's intake of breath,
hesitant fingers on his mane,
and then their first ride
under a sea of stars.

Which is what he remembered
two summers later,
when the boy, snotty-nosed,
weeping, begged him not to go --

not to a stupid girl,
that it was a trap:
that they wanted his horn
to heal the king --

"I know," he said, flaring
his nostrils and breathing in
the scent of the boy,
"I know, but he's my king too."

              *

Not the fairest,
nor the youngest,
nor the cleverest
of the King's daughters,

but the only one
to offer help
when he lay fevered,
his flesh soiled, his breath stinking.

He, the King, ruler of all
within five days' ride;
he who once tamed wild horses;
he who rocked her in her crib.

For him, she stood by the lake
on Midsummer Eve,
a battle-sword clutched
in her two-handed grip.

First the grass stirred.
Then came a smell
like the first jasmine
in the first spring,

then a sideways eye,
starlit, watching,
and a voice: "Unless you sit,
how do I put my head in your lap?"

In her throat
the taste of the sea.
"My father. The King. He's dying.
They say your horn--"

"I know. I came.
But, tactically,
shouldn't you have tried
for a surprise attack?"

The unicorn stepped forward,
his breath cool against her,
that smell of jasmine again
when she raised the sword.

(First published in Star*Line)