The only way I know —|
I ask him if his faith
is beside him.
For I am about

to tell him news
precious to me, her name
unspoken for so long.
Fragile

like the skull of a sparrow, grapes. Mother’s cut
glass decanter crossing the Atlantic Ocean
in a marked box. Spider web, tissue paper
and butterfly wing, a rose in the moment before

its petals fall all at once. Like a camel’s back,
bridge over water, tibia of horses.
Like painting in sand, a thin blue shell,
like peace and ego, the underbelly of things.

Reminded,
he gentles himself
to listen,
folding his rough-skinned hands.

I have given away a herd.
Come to this late, I long for lift
and flight and the hard touching down.

Barbaro snaps his leg at the gate.
What rivets and burns in memory is
the image of running on. Yes, he runs

on three legs and a heart. Life changes.
That fast and gasped, all bets are off, put down.
A small death here. A big death there.

And there. And there. I have stepped out
onto a remote island the sea is reclaiming,
bringing the grass to sodden weeds. These horses

will all drown if they do not bend and
grow armor, hide among the eels. The aging
actress cannot play the ingenue. No rescue here.

The long face of an old whore, unembraceable.
But like the pillowy ladies Rembrandt painted,
a horse is a beautiful thing.