Michael Brownstein writes

HORSES

Come on, Mr. Shelton,
go and play the ponies.
They own strong legs, strong hearts, the bodies that ride them.

We think otherwise.

We think lariat and halter,
saddle and too tight cinch,
the handhold manhandling the thick mane.

We are wrong.

Watch the way the horse’s chest heaves at just the right moment,
how its head turns when we do not think.
Watch its gait.
Watch the way it scrambles downhill.

When the arrow strikes or the rifled bullet,
watch it trip, rebound to its shape, the heavy body it owns
no longer capable of thoughts beyond survival,
trying in vain to reach the reins,
but the arm is crushed,
the heart bleeding,
the lungs letting air out through the skin.
The noise that entered
is just another noise. Get used to it. The noise comes and goes
one day and then a week later.

 

Fallen Horse III - Jo Taylor