Issue 162, Volume 16
May 2012

The Last Unicorn

by Ian Albright

Fingers cold,
he tended flames
meant to cook his dinner.

Spitted flesh
of small forest fowl
to keep from growing thinner.

But, oh, to
taste of the meat
from forest's favorite horse.

Drool came
upon his dry lips
dreaming of this special course.

Eyes wandered
to mantel piece
upon which laid a horn.

A token
from the days now past
whence he slew the unicorn.

Fondly now
he remembered
the hunt from which this came.

But goblins,
they are fantasy,
with the unicorns the same.

"So, now what?"
he realized.
"If they be fantasy,

should not too
I now disappear,
for fantasy I, too, be."

And with this,
he and the horn
vanished into thin air.

The goblin
signaled his own end
through him taking without care.