I wanted to die.

Not how lightning harrows

tree—that harsh flash & charred scream—

but the way a man calls a horse

across a field—gently, with sugar 

& a small voice,

vanishing into black eyes 

& the miracle of the horse’s flesh

so that he can forget his body

has limits. Stark things 

that can’t be crossed,

as borders appear to us on maps. 

In the Illinois of here, 

the horse steps away,

back into Indiana, beckoning 

with its long neck

because such journeys are easy

& easily undone.

Until they aren’t. 

I linger at the fence & cluck softly.

The horse will not come. It insists I climb

into the field, & the wind laced

with wildflowers, the wind that makes 

a song of everything. The horse will make

me choose. I linger at the fence

& cluck softly

until the stars climb out of the trees.

The horse is a shadow, pulling 

on deeper dark,

& then even the shadow is gone

—wind & field & beast—

waiting for me to forget myself

waiting for that first juddering step.

—Kirk Schlueter

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