If I’m trustworthy, a foal pulled chest-level
shut within the spring warmth, his every-which-way
coat reverberating within the wind, feels
akin to what I think about atonement may
really feel like, or whole absolution. However what
if, by some fluke within the coronary heart, an inevitable
wreckage, congenital and unanswerable,
nonetheless comes, irrespective of how connected
or how light each hand that reached
out for him in that vibrant inexperienced subject
the place they discovered him wanting like he
was sleeping, the mare nudging him
till she now not nudged him? Am I
unsuitable to say I didn’t wish to love
horses after that? I even mentioned as a lot driving
again from the farm. Even now, when
invited to go to a brand new foal, or to rub the lengthy
neck of a mare who needs solely peppermints
or to be left alone, I really feel myself resisting.
At any second, one thing horrible might
occur. It’s not gone, that coldness in me.
Our mare is pregnant proper now,
and also you didn’t even inform me till somebody
talked about it offhandedly. Sooner or later, I’ll
be stronger. I really feel it coming. I’ll step into
that inexperienced subject stoic, hardened, hoof first.
This poem seems within the January/February 2022 print version. Once you purchase a ebook utilizing a hyperlink on this web page, we obtain a fee. Thanks for supporting The Atlantic.
