Somehow, she always knew that the unicorn
was what she’d been waiting for. Why have a man
when you could have the shimmering horn,
the cloud-white mane, the eyes that shone like
polished stones? She sat in the dry leaves,
a maiden in a pleasaunce, its head on her knees.
It slept while she dreamed of a millefleur forest
and the end of the story by a pomegranate tree.
There was a long afterward. When they emerged
from a tangle of boughs, it all seemed different,
like looking through the other side of a mirror.
She stroked the unicorn’s shivering flank,
remembering the crimson warmth of the tapestry.