Thoughts of Horses During Sunday Feed

by C. Hiatt O’Connor



 

A place of dirt and horses

is not where I worship, but where I offer 

the granular body; where I bring

libations of water from the well.

 

This is not for them

a communion. 

 

I often wonder 

Who or What first took a hand 

of ochre clay from the creek below the field

and cupped it into sloping sides,

smoothed the flanks, 

braided the chords of muscle, 

capped the tender still-wet legs

with bits of shale?

 

I wonder 

Who or What 

first thumbed the hollow spaces 

into their skulls

to inlay the mica of the eyes?

 

Maybe there was no Hand

but only Horses 

all the way down. Maybe 

it’s shale shoes forever –

 

the creekshimmer of their eyes 

that selfsame glint

as the false oblivion around every star.





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