Deirdre

 

When fate

the king

the hero out of stories

comes swooping in on a white charger

sweeping up in uncompromising arms

and muting protest with a mouth

tough as a final demand

and the bailiffs already at the door

is it love?

Do I get to say

I’d rather

with this kind of dream

or is it as unnegotiable

as the small print at the bottom of the loan?

I pat the horse and offer it an apple

but it never breaks step

not even when I fall

and my head hits

that providential stone.