By Rachel Starr-Glass
Dry honey-earth cracks beneath my clover hoof,
Shades of sand on sand stretch;
Woven waves of sea.
The heat of day rises with the lazy sun,
Hauled up by copper chains, into the milk-blue sky.
Heat clouds the hills;
Blurs them before my square-pupiled eyes.
Distant fears are carried
On the steady legs of a stubborn ass,
Coaxed forward by a Giant, clad in a muted-blue robe.
Under the weight of worry.
Stable are their shadows, as they climb toward the peak.
A mountain that seldom bares the imprint of man.
A traveler and his son,
With them a rare desert breeze.
The breeze thickens; exploding into a wind,
Rushing past; stumbling.
Its belly rumbles with fear.
The horizon lets out a sharp cry,
Seven drops of rain fall:
The tears of God.
Terror courses through my veins; I bolt.
Swinging my head toward the East.
The mind runs, the body does not.
Prideful grooved horns collide
With a bush of thorns: My Demise.
Fears turns to white calm.
I wait, I watch:
The bearded man and his boy,
Blinded as they ascend.
Rope and twine tie down the young soul,
The boy lived free
His light still kindles,
In thousands of hearts,
His memory engraved behind their eyes.
Published on page 48 of the Winter 2011 issue of Leviathan.