The Ancillary Child
If you want to see the offset, the wayward,
Look at all the children’s books
Then close your eyes
And draw a simple map of a river in pencil
With lots of tributaries
The ones that lead to sunrise
The ones that dry into a scattering of gray stones
Where an imaginary child learns to live with less
And the sky is heavy, foreboding, always unilluminated
The center, the only focus
Is the stone giant that berates him
For losing his way
Losing his way for fear
For terror of the giant’s rage
And the iron grasp of his huge hands
The guilty child ducks his head under
Bricks or branches, pleading with himself
To be small and unnoticed
That way, it can’t possibly be real
Despite the grim tales of this single book
What ending can you conjure
You live for the astonishing color of dying leaves and
The hidden small animals that nest on the forest floor
And breathe quickly as you pass.
© Donald Warren Hayward 2021
