Playing Horse
by Katherine Norquist
As a child, losing in a game of horse, I'd beg
to extend the word. Horse became
horses. A whole herd of them filling the yard
on the grass, or at the edge of the pavement
glossy, still, and watching in the way
large animals do, twitching from the soft halo
of bugs. If things were going badly,
after the clang of another miss amid the galloping
of my blood, I'd beg for horseshit.
This is how I know I'm a poet
or at least have lived among poets,
which is really anyone willing to stretch
a moment beyond its dimensions,
to chase down and foul the opponent at the end
of the game to extend the clock.
It is my grandmother's habit, lately,
to whisper every time we part lamb,
I wish you lots of joy in this life
and I know she's conscious, now, of the end
of each phrase, the last letter
and how it will ring through the wind
once we've parted. Knowing we don't
have all night. Hoping, regardless,
we might play a little longer.