You were born a swath of frost
in the clover, nudged up
on icicle legs. Now you cut
through men like a derecho,
sulfur and Sodom in your nostrils,
entrails winding your hooves.
I am trying to believe that God
doesn’t will destruction, that out of love
he allows our terrible freedoms
to gallop across the globe.
The arrows tremble in your shoulders.
I pull them out, hum softly
and stroke your heaving flanks,
even if your rider presses his sword to my neck,
even if the book says I’m too late.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.