PENETRATION

In times when light was sparse, men hunted unicorns.

Following the gentle squeeze of one shoulder, two such fellows broke foliage together until they spotted the superb white muzzle chewing snapped blackberry vines. This was a horse immune to thorns.

The blood slipped off the hunters’ swords in the stream, while their thoughts stayed stuck on that instant they’d shared, when they witnessed the magical spike shooting above muscle and hide.

Spiraling, it was more artful than seashells and denser than bone. The two men had been one soul rising in the hollow of the horn. Then the hooves lifted, and the hunters lowered their stabs at the belly.

Once the ale and flutes stopped in the separate villages, the hunters’ wives sprang upon their despondent husbands’ laps. Now powdered cheeks and stone walls and dozens of valleys divided the two men. Their swords stank of banquet hall smoke, and somewhere a dead unicorn turned August leaves red.

After finally pulling down their husbands’ tights that night, each wife exposed what looked like a little snail caught crossing between homes.