I often write multiple versions of a poem to get to the one I post. This week I ended up with the two versions below – and could not choose between them. So…I am posting both.

THE GATE

Sometimes,

to get thru the gate,

you have to disguise yourself,

as something else,

as the horse you road in on.

Sometimes to be truly sovereign,

you have to kill your own horse

and wear its hide as camouflage

to get past the guards,

to outwit the enemy.

The truth is,

the horse does not die.

You do not die.

Nothing dies.

The form things take

is what changes.

And then there are

the three golden apples

that you plant—

that feed the kingdom,

until the next famine comes.

And the cycle begins again.

***

THE GATE

I am

the horse

I cut open,

that I flay.

I am the horse’s hide,

which I wear

to get thru

the gate,

past the enemy.

Nothing really dies

in this story,

this folktale.

So please,

don’t fault me

for telling it.

The horse

does not

die. I

do not die.

No one

truly dies.

Remember: it’s a myth.

Yet nothing

remains the same.

And, in the end,

all it takes

are the three golden apples

to feed the kingdom,

to bring the realm back

into balance—until

the cycle begins again.