Ogre
by Gail
Like the ogre in all fairy tales
every year he killed the white-faced
children that he had stolen;
he cut their beating throats,
dropped them, rock-laden,
into the uncovered well,
used their breasts for targets;
every year he lumbered out into the unwalled village
to gather more--
he didn't care if they trembled silently under his hands
or screamed words of absolute fury into his stone ears;
he laughed meatily,
knowing that he had new toys to break.
But he was as near-sighted
as only an ogre could be,
peering through the hair of his preconceptions;
the children never died;
the arrows buried in their chests
melted away with the snow;
the water bore them up and secretly out;
their wounds slowly closed
as the flowers crept into the air;
and the children slept safely.
The ogre stayed too long in one place;
one day the remaining children
were ready for his approach,
drove him out with stones
and dancing;
the ogre fled,
the village went along as if he had never been.
The sleeping children woke slowly after years,
wandered back as to a magnet,
told their stories, were comforted.
The ogre never did return;
he roams the countryside
or smashes city buildings;
the children still have nightmares;
the body on which this story ate
walks and smiles and writes.
