Pelts of Trolls
by Marge Simon

You invite me to explore
the invisible world of forces,
infinite conjoining rooms
with doors that open one by one.

So indeed, I'm tempted.
I have mortgaged my life for diversion,
but it must be on my terms.

You know my language,
don't talk to me of universals, choose again.
A sauterne wind at sunset, rich and sweet.
the molting of the moon, when it sheds its skin
in the thick bayou mists.

Show me the mountains.
Have your violins declare a landscape,
enhanced by sound;
The dying chord,
a lingering bouquet.

You lie. You give me only
a world of endless wind,
the rattle and clink of chains.
Who are these people
with pelts of trolls?

Some are born to do nothing
to never know passion or fall in love,
barren as one syllable words,
too softly spoken.
Most lost their childhood
the day they were birthed.
Look at them.

When I watch,
I see the same tragedy.
Empty coffins of teak
and pine await their bones.