On a Christian Holiday

December 23, 2013

The wind, a shudder from the wolf,
its suddenness, sharp as scissors, dumb
as blood. That which had sheltered her had turned
from clay into a papier-mâché fortress, from rock
to blasphemous ribbons. The wolf could be her throat—
history could be a romance better said
than silenced. She knew that.
She knew that the sunset is red or real only
if we can see it and speak to it.
But it was not her voice that saddled up
the horse, for today was a Christian holiday.
A slip of a girl was about to ride
her gallant stallion off the planet
into what could be the moon, but wasn’t.

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