Sister and Brother

by Barth Anderson

you long to run in musky rain and princely skins

but, sister, I have sped that hidebound marathon

wearing golden hides that warped my hands to hooves

and broke my scalp with a crown of horns —

I've run through thorns and thirsty fens

through wolves that bite and cats that catch —

those blood–dried hides of hoary kings

scoured raw my skin and

deadened my heart with hammering —

when I reached your hearth I shucked that hide

and faerie hands unveiled my sight:

ever beneath that scouring skin

proud, callow princes were scraped away

revealing numb and bloody men below.

but no more hides and no more hurts

run, sister, if you must but no more marathons for me

for I choose this hearth, not the princely hide,

and I will let my skin knit smooth