It was deep summer. The grasseswere all golden. Amber balesof hay, rolled tight
as cinnamon buns, lay dottedaround a lone field oak, with horsesgrazing between. Years later,
after we were married, after the birthof our son, the deathof our daughter, we went
to see a neighbor’s Appaloosas,thinking they’d be prancing the whitefencing of their pen, a lush rug
of green grass unspooling downto a cobalt fishpond. Idyllic. Butthe horses had less than a quarter-acre
to pace back and forth on land that was wornof all grass. Anything green was shorndown to the red clay, so that the horses
which were spotted fawn and creamhad stained themselves pinkwith their rolling.
We took our son to see themas therapy. Isn’t that what you dowith a clinically unhappy child?
But he was scared, and the flies were bad,and the farm dog…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2024