The Pet

I rode him through the village, smiling. He tossed his tasseled mane in distress. The villagers took his gesture as vanity, and made no attempt to rein him back. Camped at night by stream and fire, he seemed to think stories were in order. The ghoulish tales twisting out his mouth no longer frightened me. On leaving, I'd taken on a certain complacency. Later, he'd characterize my silence as merely mean. But what is mean about a mouth that, having no stories, claims it can provide no flower for the ear, no wine for the wind? I tried: I told the tale of him, which he (the version being mine) was not much interested in. But all of us, the fattening moon, the yewey trees, the sharp-toothed stars who combed their glowing backs against the sky like cats: we laughed. And now that I had left, where would I take him? He was vehicle and, as such, responsibility. He was deadening, tiresome, and necessary. I made ourselves a home and kept him gently as a pet. Visitors often wonder aloud, How do you manage to keep such a creature inside? The floors are stained with his keep. I tell them my heart is huge and its doors are small. Once I took him in he grew. Now I cannot remove him without killing him, which, frankly, I have never wanted to do.