The Husband
Lost and tossed in a forest of oxen and double-humpers, I regain bearing. The jangle of jewelry and pack strapping sings. But I care not these details; it’s the voice of their husband I strain for.
Herders materialize first amidst dust. Polite, more regal than most who lead beasts, tattling plans and stories, trips returned, rests ahead.
I’ve waited this mess of carnival and Eden a dozen weeks. The sought magistrate knows the bean I grow; he alone can make it prosper in my proximity to river. His children are the key to his time and heart. I know a woman who trades with his daughter and thuswise observe this meet with cattle.
It’s twenty months since our last approach from the serpents of air. The safe period grants this walking of beasts. Amidst these, some dressed better than men, I spot the Prince. I follow through gate and door and tunnel. He is not the sort to worry who trails.
I track him to ricefields, foregrounds to the houses of his many daughters. He stoops with fire to speak their behalf. No sign of them lingers, his words to earth and sky and much farther. Sorrow and wisdom paint his perfect face.
The sun quiets by degree. I too am in quest of his whispers. Then he doubles back, and I am discovered. He is unworried. Larger tasks swim his brains.
Once more in his tow, I wonder on his fabric; its color and weight are a tale all themselves. He walks as though naked, unashamed, but covered. He chants and counts as he heads back to market.
Somehow crowds have gathered. They ask counsel as he passes. The Mayors rise.
One tries to speak out, a rare plaintiff. But his smile brings peace. He is his own parade.
