By Julia Aloi
There is an old Tolstoy fable
I like to think about.
A man, running away from a beast,
hurls himself into a well,
only to find a dragon at the bottom.
He hangs onto an olive branch,
the midpoint of two reapers.
A pack of mice scurry onto the branch
and gnaw away at its root.
The man soon notices
a drop of honey
on one of the leaves and licks it up,
a momentary treat
before the eternal beast swallows him.
I have not found my drop of honey,
but I am trying my best
to remain distracted.