1,393 Readings

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.
Posted 04/19/11
originally published in 32 Poems vol 8.2 as "Reverie"
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