Into her marriage she brings a large unicorn blanket she could not part
with, though it embarrasses her that she still frets over judgement from a beast she knows is imagined. Her husband loves her and cannot bring himself to hate it. The pragmatic part of him notes that the blanket is at least
warm and lies smoothly over the goose-feather duvet. The woman lies beneath the blanket beside her husband and is comforted. Long before she learned to be angry, a part of her had mourned the unicorn, convinced it would
know just from looking at her that she was no longer worthy. Though her family and friends couldn’t fathom her secret if she didn’t speak of it, a unicorn would see her body, an unjewelled thing amongst the birch and pine, and it would be ashamed. She had found it easy to believe that she was
mundane and could no longer be a friend to magic. Now, the wind sings into the un-blossomed tulips of their garden as the couple edges toward the dark forest of sleep. The woman has learned to stop blaming herself for a violence she once thought had ruined her heart. At night the unicorn leaps out of the threads of the blanket and lands gently outside the bedroom window to lower its horn in the slant of the moon. It might approach to nudge against their skins. It knows instinctively how the man and the woman hold their pleasures, like sugar cubes,
inside their hands, and it has always approved of such tenderness between creatures.