I’m the one-eyed troll,
wet, muddy, long nails scratching
stone from dirt below the bridge
while I wait for the boards to creak.
I’m the bridge or the cold
impatient river, or the sky
upside down, blue and white on water.
Mostly, I’m the goat,
my teeth full of grass,
wanting only mountains,
and time to lift my puzzled chin
to what must happen next.
Return to Archive
FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 29 | Summer 2010