World Building
I. Old Tongue
I don't have
an Old Tongue-
I was born headfirst
into the vernacular
the language of Shakespeare
and Clinton; the language
of gain; that's my country's
legitimate heir-
so I brought forth
this bastard
forgotten as much as
remembered, created
from something and nothing
growing against
its own rules,
multiplying
confusion and consonants
the language that magic
is done in, the language
of love
on the page, it's
a snare and a ruse;
they all wonder
how to pronounce--
because how could
they know-
but you know; since the page
is for them but
my mouth is for you,
you alone.
II. It Is And It Isn't
Lucky that
none of it's real;
lucky you've
been right here
all this time
and not trapped
far away
Lucky your family
is kind, that Ulnach
can be taught, that
we've never
been hurt,
lucky nobody
burns, that the evil
we fight doesn't face us
in flame
but still lucky
it's real, where
it matters-
Lucky you wanted
this place to be;
lucky you found it
hidden in me.
III. Go To Her
A car slipped and stuck in
A snowbank's no uncommon
thing around here;
I drove on
but once I got into
the house, in my head
I heard Sincil-if it
were myself in trouble--
And since I had written
that story, I put on
my boots, took the shovel and
walked down the long
silent street
Of course when I got to
the car, there were ten bustling
guys offering strength and
advice
And no one would let me
dig in, although one of them
borrowed my shovel
The rest of them got
the car freed; we shook hands and
I tramped back on home
like an asshole, the damn
shovel up on my shoulder-
Odysseus's
stupid oar--
Down at the foot of
the stairs, in your little
red cap and the scarf that
I made, you stand scanning
the street
You've followed the prints of
my little cloven hooves;
but the track ends right here
where the snow gets too thin
And you're at a loss;
so you call my name,
hoping it brings me to you
like magic-
and look,
here I come.
All right, neither of us
was cut out for saving
the world. So who cares;
you're my hero,
and you've
come for me.