POETRY.

THE BEAN SELLER'S TALE

Once upon a time,

we were cast as

hoodwinkers, thaieves,

old-timers of the deranged forests

and scarecrow-less fields,

peddling trickery and bedlam

from our ragtag sleeves

to the hungry child

sent far from home.

Yet here you are, all grown,

tendering coins

in your open palm.

Well, then:

take this unlikely sachet.

It will humble you all over again—

but entomb that dust as if

it was the enchanted must

of a dead tyrant

from the far-away

of the nursery room.

And then—

Gogamog, Blunderbore,

Fee-fi-fo-fum!

You recall the routine.

If you feel fear,

run to your mother—

no need for shame.

She has always tended

the secrets of our trade.

Listen to her explain.

Life is a giant—

but it wants nothing from us

other than to keep on being born.

By Maria Takolander