The Grudge
Feed it first
with mustard spoons,
with care, avoiding
sudden and disarming light.
Sing, (you know its songs).
Gnnarr, it says. Gnnaar.
Little thing, little thing.
A daytime moon
and still you’re there,
pink-eyed, the mustard spoons,
the tablespoons, while the grudgeless
dream bland dreams – and nights
of them – until
one evening? Afternoon?
(So many spoons),
you find it’s grown,
it’s strong enough
to bear you on its back
and ride you mightily
through this whole cold world.
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