The Giant Who Had No Heart Inside His Body

after Asbjørnsen and Moe

didn’t know where to hide it. It was a big heart, after all,
as huge as a Cadillac, as loud as a kick drum, and where
do you hide such a thing? He tried the barn, wrapped

in layers of aluminum foil and linen, hung on a hook
from the highest beam—but still the field mice found it.
He woke that night to the tickle of their tiny feet inside

the huge hollow of his chest. His own laughter chased
him through the darkness until he lifted the barn roof
and scared them off. Next, he tried the bottom of the lake,

sunk with stones to the deepest part. The surface rippled
softly with every beat of the mighty heart, but the sound
was muffled and the fish well-fed. For a while, it worked—

until the cellophane began to leak, and the hole inside him
filled with water, a well overflowing, and he wept for days.
When the hungry princess arrived, it was raining. He noticed

her bright umbrella. Eat, he said, having no other choice, his voice
rolling down from the clouds. And so she ate, slice by slice,
bite by painful bite for a year, until no one anymore might find it.

—from Poems for Katie