The Plow Horses
by Judith Skillman

They come to you as from the wings
of a theater—old Chicago, the carriages
rusting, red velvet seats gone picayune,
detail work undone.

        They come
to you in pairs, the duns, the sienna’s,
because they know you to be a man
who might feed or ride them.

The golden pheasant preens
       in its indoor-
outdoor cage as if it doesn’t know
it will be the last to go.

                       The rooster
watches over his brood, fenced safe
from his skinny overtures and hoarse
voice.  Inside the yardage of a pen, horses
turn toward dusklight with the largesse
of everything too big and good
                       for humanity.

They come to you first out of thirst,
second because
       you are a man.
The claw foot tub half full,
       bits of grain
at the bottom—

no goldfish to clean three-day old water
in the second-hand store-front.
The manikin of a horse stands
       tall and beige
its plastic coat
facing main street.

                       Clay rabbit,
wheelbarrow planted with annuals—
latticework of floor boards—
none of this will sell
               the horses.


       They come to eat grass
pulled up by the roots,
               paired
       by the common-law marriage.

Nothing you can do
stops the plodding—
               each poorly-
shod foot placed carefully as if for luck.

Nothing you say will change
the broken, caramel-colored plow
and amber fields
       of grain…

It’s beasts own the air and earth.
With every breath of mist
       they taste
your skinned scent, your insufficiency.

It will be the eight mad eyes eying you
tells the story of avarice:
               what comes
from human hands
will nor satisfy the dun
or sienna.

       Magnificat lies
not in musculature and muzzle,
               but the bit
that bloodies the soft corners
of mouths
where squared teeth
float.
 

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