Fall 2013

Edited by BLAS FALCONER | BARRY KITTERMAN | AMY WRIGHT



Poetry

One Thing More About Horses

Jacob Newberry


     When they die, they
are often mourned, unlike her,
            the one we want 

     to eulogize but can’t
determine how. I think you’ll
            remember saying 

     that you hadn’t loved her;
how I agreed. I was careful
            not to say 

     I’d felt the same, only
that I understood. But that thing
            about horses: 

     it’s rare, I think, that they
should die alone. It’s rare, I know,
            for you to tell me 

     what we both already know.
I’ll try instead to think of her
            dissolving, some night 

     in January, folding
into a herd of galloped starbursts,
            frozen in the act 

     of fleeing whatever
it is their equine hearts conspired
            to fear. So, yes, 

     she has retained
that quality of transformation
            we both dreaded

     and desired. So
in our minds, let’s set her out:
            toward a valley

     with no trees, a plain
where what distinction lasts
            between the earth 

     and sky is too terrible
to be maintained, too impossible
            to be contained.




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