Fridays

By Mary Alexandra Agner

He broke right through the brush one night, stumbled
on my just-transplanted deadly toadstools.

He took in my unwashed hair, cotton
dress with print worn off, and arms in dirt

up to the elbow while I watched the dragon
chasing him stomp past the hedge and roar.

Maybe I smiled? Maybe he'd never seen
a hedge-witch without wrinkles and a cackle?

Such things take time. Something made up his mind
and so he turned and charged the beast, and spit

it on his gleaming, king-annointed sword.
A real live knight, right in my nightshade garden.

He said some courtly things, but with an accent,
which were quite nice, but when he offered me

the dragon's hide (except the head, of course)
for composting, I thought he understood.

He asked me if I'd join him in his castle.
I said yes, and liked it when he kissed me.

And now, I patch my flannel shirts with silk,
in hopes each stitch will make me fit for court.

Each night I scrub the day's mud from my feet.
Still, gold slippers make poor garden clogs.

Some mornings I come home with plants that bloom
only in direct starlight. He yells:

"Have you been out all night, alone, again?
I came home and found an empty house.

Where were you?" In softer tone he adds,
"You could have told me you were going out."

I've never told him how I fear once
upon a time he'll meet another monster

without me there to smile for his courage.
Instead I take his worry-words, contrite,

and brew him plant decoctions to protect
him from the perils of his knighthood.

On Fridays, he tacks home, some monster slain,
and asks me for a flower from my garden.

I break off a gladiolus, sword
stalk leaves and all. He shakes the handbell blooms

and laughs while they are ringing. Then we drag
the ogre's head of domestic discord

past the threshold, right into the kitchen,
cook it down, and make good cheese.