Hey everyone. Fine tuning poems is good practice for writing fiction -- helps me create voices, sharpen my mind, tune in on the small stuff, focus, etc. I'm glad I have my roots in poetry. This is one of my favorites. From the point of view of the horse. Love, C.A.
From the Show Horse
Reaching. Stretching. My neck. For hay, for grain.
I get the green hay, which is better.
My field friend, J.J., gets the yellow.
Last night, out with the boys, I heard that the white mare, Lily,
is having a baby. No,
it wasn't me. They won't let me near her,
but she's lucky. The big man feeds her
the sweet feed kind, which is like dessert,
so she'll probably gain...
a couple hundred. At her old home, her real name
was Emmi Snow, but nobody liked it
except for me.
It's sweaty in the barn, but we go outside after breakfast.
On the way, some don't have manners,
because they're mad at
inside. I don't mind. I know it's not
forever. When my shoulders lock up, I kick the stall wall,
and I chew on the wood. I can't stop chewing some days.
All the dark-haired ones tell me fast, soft words
that it's gonna be all right. The funniest man with the hat
cleans my dirty. I think he came from
somewhere. Then he stops and turns into smoke.
Then he rides on loud machines and gives me
an extra soft bed, and maybe his apple core, which is
happiness. But on the quiet day after two days of busy,
sometimes he doesn't show up.
And when he comes back, I think he might die,
but he gets better.
I thought I was going outside, but here comes my girl.
I lick some salt from the block and
stand tall.
Keep going. For her. Today in the barn,
she leads me again. I’d follow her anyhow,
but she uses the rope. I breathe on her neck,
placing my hooves down; the right front stings a little
from the shoe man, but I won't tell her. I take it easy
on the right, tight side.
Man, the work. But seeing her,
I come alive, feeling her fingers stroke and brush my black
mane. Mom had that shade too. One day, they put her
on the small barn with wheels, and she never came back.
J.J. always tells me they sent her to a rest farm, but he looks
backwards when he says it. I know she went to the
killers. I'm big, though. I'm five now.
Yesterday, the skinny vet came. I like that one. His hands
are soft, but bony and gentle. I don't like the fat one, or the one
who does my shoes. I admit I tried to kick him once.
My back has almost healed from the jumping crash,
but on rainy days,
my girl brushes me longer
than she should, just to be sure. I guess she knows
I'm still achy. I guess she knows that I was
trying, that the wreck wasn't my fault. Suddenly it hits me –
the sharpest air.
Storm’s coming. I hear 32 hooves
shift at once. The oldest one and the sick one call out
warnings, always a dead giveaway. My girl cleans me,
and I know she thinks I'm handsome. Then she sweeps
the aisle, making cloudy dust. Each moment my body
is awake, I move for her. Even when I can’t feel my muzzle,
when it’s too cold to sneeze, I move for her. Later, if I stay in,
when the barn is dark, I spend minutes,
hours rocking
in the stall. Can’t sleep, can’t see, and if I lie down,
she might worry with morning. I listen to her breath,
letting it lift me, balancing steadily, without the wall.
I guess I love her, enough to know I don’t love another,
enough to recall the one who jerked me around. Later,
they'll give me a snack.
Hey, yesterday, she packed up
my bridle, her saddle, and her shiny, heavy tool box,
then gave me a bath, and the tall man cleaned my teeth.
My chewing is gonna be worse now. Looks like
we’re going somewhere.
This must be what people feel like.
C.A. MacConnell
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