broke from my grip as I led
him from barn to arena. This had
never happened before. I stood
dumbfounded as he galumphed
across the meadow, saddled and bridled,
ducking his head to tear mouthfuls
of spring grass from the field—
the temptation of it all too much
for him. He stepped on his reins,
and I thought, Either the reins will break
or he’ll slice his tongue. I watched
as the reins fell in two soft pieces.
I’d stayed out too late drinking
the night before, and I was unprepared
for the sudden rear and heave
of all that horse muscle. At the bar,
I’d been caught up in the gentle
attentiveness with which a friend
brought his ex-wife her ginger ale
and made sure she was happy, holding
the door as she left and asking
if she wanted him to walk her to her car.
At one point, she’d told me
she’d always regretted not going
to medical school. It was what her parents
had wanted, and perhaps the world needed
more doctors who cared about people.
The exes moved around each other
with the quiet assurance of those
who have shared close quarters.
If I could have, I would have wished
that fleeting softness into the world
like pollen that covers everything.
Now the horse was halfway
across the meadow to the hedgerow,
delighted to have the run
of the overgrown field, his bit
turning green from grassy froth,
the remains of his reins curled
like sunning snakes in the long grass.
I approached him slowly, looped half
a rein through his bridle, and led
his thousand pounds back to the barn.
He followed, a frayed strap
of leather between us coordinating
our movements, matching, momentarily,
his animal purpose to mine.
Not by Extraordinary Means
There is so much material in the material world.
We have no yard; the philodendron pots are small; we’ll bury the cat elsewhere.
The Vikings were precise but not extraordinary
in their cruelties. King Ælla’s ribs were broken from his spine, then pulled open
behind his back to resemble wings.
Little brown bats are vanishing
like smoke from caves they’ve filled for thousands of years. It is a small thing,
but if you don’t add eggs one at a time to cake batter, the emulsion will break,
and the cake won’t rise.
The Vikings—sometimes they yanked the lungs through.
Salted them.
No, not by extraordinary means, my mother told the doctor when pressed. He wouldn’t
let her leave for the night. Then, in her smallest voice, But, yes, everything else, please.
First Engagement
There was this Sicilian place.
You had to take the ferry
to get there. Or we did,
living in Brooklyn. The ferry
was free and crowded, but we
elbowed our way to the rail.
Commuters sat inside, drank
beer from the concession stand,
and read the daily news.
We’d gotten engaged,
but we’d call it off soon.
At the Sicilian place,
a woman sat beside us
and ordered every appetizer
on the menu. She told us her cat
was dying. Baby, Baby is dying.
Later that night, we argued
by the B61. The word marriage
hung in the air like an obscenity.
Nevertheless, I remember staring
into backlit windows,
imagining life unrolling
as smoothly as the stocking
over an actress’s leg.
At home, I told our cat
she’d live forever. You said,
Don’t give her false hope,
then took your fatalism
to bed. That was the summer
your
