Prose Poetry and Fiction from Web del Sol

Peter Johnson

Bedtime Story

When I was twelve, a horse appeared. It carried King Richard disguised as a policeman. All night long my street glimmered. Car doors opened and closed. The owner of the steel plant wanted to know the secret, wanted to stroke my mother's perfect breasts. The secret was to be in the presence of a horse, or surrounded by red and green flowers that never grew in my neighborhood. There were dandelions. And tulips coated with metallic flakes. In the suburbs, privileged armies faced off, displaying their silken banners. I could hear the clash of armor when I closed my eyes.