I was covered with my excrement like a sheep …
The sorcerer did not handle well my illness.
And the necromancer could not make an end of my malady.
(from The Wisdom of Tabi-Utul-Ellil)
Matted and spavined, what else can I do but
await the herd dog? I totter where he drives
me, a bleat in the crowd. Always the same
trough, the same swilling heads. Why a
sheep, not a raptor? Why sick with no cure?
Today I chafe. Others, I’m content to clump
among field grass. Either way comes the
blade.
Devon Balwit [she/her] walks in all weather and edits for Asimov Press, Asterisk Magazine, and Works in Progress. For more, visit: https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet.