As the Sickle Moon Guts a Cloud

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

a sickness grows inside the moonlight,

turns under the mud in the corral

the horse churns to fever.

A boy stands at the fence

and whistles to the horse, clicks

his tongue, stamps his foot.

The horse will not come.

And when it does,

          when the boy offers it hay,

it bites the center of his palm

which purples with blood.

In twenty years, the boy

will place a shotgun in his mouth

          while his child is asleep.

Though they cannot be deciphered,

cannot become lighter,

all moments will shine

if you cut them open,

glisten like entrails in the sun.

          The fever grows deeper

into itself, tender-rooted flowers

inside the belly of the horse,

inside the eye of the boy

who again tries to feed it the hay,

gently cups its mouth.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014