to someone beautiful and tired

The sharpness of your wit untested
by the bluntness of their adoration
the glimmer in your eye detested
by them in their constant trepidation.
You fear their fear and hate their love
-- misplaced, uncalled for, undesired --
still they assail you as up above
in your fragile roost you grow tired.

(now it slips
it's bound to fall
keep your eyes open
and your wings spread)

I think I know some of your pain
a sliver of your truth and the disdain
you hold for those who would misname you.
You look like you could use a friend
on whom you can (for now) depend
to speak your name until the end.

The last of the giants lived on the eastern slopes 
of the southern tip of the Andes, far from the plains
most men of smaller stature called their home.

Every so often, he clambered down to sate
that most essential urge---not just to mate
but to beget---and since he only aged 

in myths, his youthful looks proved suit enough 
for those who’d heard of him: for those who’d not, 
he was untroubled by the odd abduction.

Still, there were certain lines he would not cross
by always preferring the shortest, the ones least likely
to be his seed, such that the nearby crop

depleted with every harvest---such that he found
whole tribes of men too tall---he had to stray
farther and farther, he had to lose his way,

he had to suppress the urge to head for home
and, in the end, he made it the only urge
his body could move to sate. When he returned,

it was no wonder his knees at once gave out:
he fell headlong to the earth, bursting his skull
and spilling the clumps of gold for which his seed
would, in a crueler epoch, be bled white.

Reworking this NaPM piece. I guess my last NaPM post wasn't the last one after all

prior drafts:

(v2) Pregnant Cow in Backyard

She isn’t moved by sugar. You have to wait
for her to lumber slowly down the wilted fence
that couldn’t hold a sneeze. The only payment
here: a cabbage glowing in your sleeve.

Sarah’s mom or grandmother has carved
her name into the wood, you watch again
as clouds open and miracles fall out.
The air is heavy with the taste of spring.

When she bends down to drink, be sure
to kiss the cow’s tremendous face—all night
she’s been so hungry for the apple
of your breath. You lean against her ribs,
someone’s singing in the distant dark.
Listen closely: this could be your child.


(v1) Pregnant Cow in Backyard

She’s much too big to move: you have to wait
for her to lumber down the wilted fence
that couldn’t hold her if she tried, a cabbage
glowing in your sleeve the only form
of payment. In the country, it is always 
raining, claims the sign. Someone’s mom
or grandmother has stitched a memory
across the border where the lichen sinks
its yellow teeth, a bonnet pink and spotted
with decay. Who could ever kiss
her heavy face, which she lifts up to you
so hungry for the apple of your breath,
and not be changed? It’s always spring:
a cloud opens, a miracle falls out.