I miss the scrape of spiked boots on the groundsel
at evening, the iron creak and slam of the door.
The stroke and pet of his hard hand gave the days
their meaning. Jack, can you understand?


In dreams I return beyond the beanstalk, fly
to my old home in the clouds.
Here it is safe, but the thought he needs me
pecks at the eye of peace.


I yearn for the oaken sound of his stride.
What you call bondage,
I would purchase with my last gold ounce.
For the smell of leather and mead, I would sell
my soul.










Republished from A Wound on Stone, Perugia Press, 2001, with permission of the author.