Saturday, December 5, 2015

the beating of war drums, the pounding of hooves, 
the horses
running until there are no places left to run, their sweat soaked haunches and chests
frantic breathing smoke into the night.
  
the front yard is a mess of paw prints, i don't remember which shampoo 
to buy. 
i break off pieces of my head like breadcrumbs, leave a trail 
too confusing to find, 
everything is still bruised, 
crawl under the porch as a dying cat.
safety has snapping jaws.

i am angry red-rubbed stitches on hands 
washed too many times in a gas station bathroom, crying
"they still don't feel right, who do they belong to?"
i tell the story of the horses so many times that i begin to think 
i know horses.

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