How Grivas of the Blue Horse Gave Way

by Holly Karapetkova

Once when the king came looking
I called him a bastard, spat
in the dirt, strapped my weapons on
and rode my blue horse.
My hair was as black as a curse.

But the autumn came
the leaves turned bitter
and the soil laid out its poison.

Now my hair is gray.
The king will find me at home
confessing my sins to the priest:
thirty years a rebel, twenty a thief.
All I ask is a coffin tall enough to stand
wide enough to load my gun
and on the right side leave a window
so that the swallows will come
driving the spring
driving my blue horse home.