American Fairy Tale

When we came home from England,

the streets were too big, the cars,

the grocery aisles too wide, the plenty

exhausting, almost frightening.

We were giddy with it, this abundance,

and, yes, I do admit it, I was afraid.

I was like Jack after the beanstalk,

and this was the Giant’s world,

not mine. Soon I would take of it,

as easily as before, forgetting the feel

of smaller aisles, smaller roads,

shops just for bread, just for sweets.

I’d live at home in the Golden Goose

world for many years before guilt

returned, the obligation to share,

and, by then, I’d have to do it

in grown-up ways and with despair.

The poor Giant will still fall down,

doing damage when he lands,

sprawled across the rubble, broken

trees, his body rotting before help

can cart him away. It’s terrible

to imagine. I’d rather turn him

into a grandfather. We’ll all climb

up and sit on his knee, bring him

our melons he’ll eat like jelly beans,

and tell him how we’ll praise him,

hand out his abundance to the poor

and starving, and remake his world

into a truly golden one, with a rainbow

of descendants, accompanied by harp.

— Babs