Tell me the story of your heart.
Does it include a donkey?
I’m not completely sure about a donkey,
although any type of ass in my poems
is an ass that probably belongs in them.
I wouldn’t mind if everything I am
and desire to become rides on the back
of a donkey, its silver bell around its neck
tinkling away as both of us grind up
the steep mountain to the monastery where
the monks have never spoken a word.
When I get there, if I get there, then I’ll
start writing the story of my heart, but not
until I’ve given the donkey water, a bucket
of oats—we made it, old friend, rest now,
rest. We still have a lot of traveling to do.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 12. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize.