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photo allposters.com
A colic in a breeding mare.
The third night, third morning
The needle in my certain hand became
an arc reflecting broken bits of star.
It slid beneath the swollen, thumb-pushed vein
and let her blood spill cold, libate and black
onto the hungry ground. It was to tame
the god beneath. She died three times that night.
I brought her back, injecting life again.
We walked. Dear Christ; we walked that bastard time
before true dawn, both drugged by cold, me lame.
The sun kicked in and brindled us with light
and warmth. Her eye no longer showed the pain
and she let drop great, gleaming, mounded turds.
I bowed and gave the morning sun my breath,
unzipped my fly and laughing pissed on Death.
© Jan Iwaszkiewicz 2003. All rights reserved.
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