I made horses out of
fuzzed pipe cleaners, and then
my hand, middle finger
curved just so
to form
the horse’s bowed head,
and sometimes
lifted
the index finger
when the horse
reared and said “neigh”
and I practiced the sound of the horse,
nay, the right hand, then both,
the corpus collosum a fence
I mended my hands
not spiders, though they can be
lovely, too, but horses, the quilt,
the carpet their field.
My mother called me
“lover,” and Sam, and Clyde, and Pedro.
These horses kneeled
to each other
and played.
Imagine the beauty in fingers
the innocence
in the soft flare
of the horse’s lip
over the apple.
