The hope a mooncalf follows
is sacrifice for slaughter,
and yet the wings of swallows
still skip across the water. 

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The Idiot

Whenever I sit with the village idiot,
it’s always with genuine reverence and a bit
of suspicion. Usually we just stare at the rooks,
and he sips my beer without asking, then looks
deranged as if to say he’s sorry. He knows enough
about me to know I like diamonds in the rough.
And, strangely, he and I always notice the same things:
hieroglyphs in the snow, tiny holes in our fillings.
When he’s not around, my wife says he’s a blackguard
and a parasite, a charlatan, and a drunkard;
and I try to explain that he’s just the village idiot,
and that once in a while it’s necessary to sit
with him and share a pint. Later, when she falls asleep,
out of pity and out of love, I allow him to sneak
into her bed and fondle her thin white thighs,
and, if she doesn’t protest, to spend the night.

first appeared in The Windsor Review, Spring 1997

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© by Leo Yankevich