Three Little Sonnets


Poor piggy—product of circumstance. You were
eager to start a new life, free from the mother
you loved so much. Kudos to you
for maintaining your vulnerability
along with your faith, for making
do with what was given you. Any other day
and the wolf could have come down the road.
Your wise brother would have still been
outside, only one wall up, the mortar not even dry. 
But not today. Today, your straw comes up short.   
How wonderful though, those twenty-four hours
you were surrounded in gold,
that rich scent of false security
when you had a place you could call your own.


For a little while at least, you were
the smart one. You knew what you were building
would be stronger than one brother’s
and the other didn’t have a single stick,
let alone that future lot full of bricks.
Even if he did, you wouldn’t have been
convinced—only things that come apart can be
put together again. Then again,
there needs to be someone left to do the assembling.
Where the fragile went, you were bound to go;
this you had to know. Hearing the huff and puff,
you wished as a suckling
you’d given your brother the larger teat
so he’d been fat enough to curb the wolf’s appetite.


You are the hero, loved as if by a mother—
no more than the two others. In fact, maybe
she even resents you. Why didn’t you invite them in,
after all? They were your brothers, for God’s sake.
And no, you cannot claim ignorance. 
That wolf was known all over town for the fangs
in his grin. And how could you go to the fair
when your brothers were eaten. How could you!
It is not your fault, but if you were wise enough to stay
alive could you not have helped others live too?
Not everything has a moral; some things
explain themselves and that explanation’s just true.
Cozy at home, sage of the fittest.
Pot full of wolf stew, no one to share it with.

—Evan Glasson, Arlington, MA