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Black Horse
A squirrel tumbling from flaccid evergreens,
a chord of upset in the hemlocks—my mother knew me
as a tomato vine shivering up a stick,
a goose in wintry mist. He’s touched,
my parents said, so I surrendered to the fields
outside my house, stomping crop circles
in the neck-high grass, my thoughts
hummingbirds tonguing syrup. My father the black horse
studied me, a white horse painted black,
now shivering in the rain, mouth-colored paint streaming down
my hooves. Time to grow up, he said,
but I wouldn’t—I was an insect trapped
in amber, a goose feather under ice, a hummingbird in a throat,
a whinny through the pines.
a chord of upset in the hemlocks—my mother knew me
as a tomato vine shivering up a stick,
a goose in wintry mist. He’s touched,
my parents said, so I surrendered to the fields
outside my house, stomping crop circles
in the neck-high grass, my thoughts
hummingbirds tonguing syrup. My father the black horse
studied me, a white horse painted black,
now shivering in the rain, mouth-colored paint streaming down
my hooves. Time to grow up, he said,
but I wouldn’t—I was an insect trapped
in amber, a goose feather under ice, a hummingbird in a throat,
a whinny through the pines.
Posted 04/19/11
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