I look for it in my memory, and sometimes
it will not arrive, that horse that is all horses
is lost in some distant music.
The shadows under the tree are empty,
the shape of the horse that is not there.
When I was a horse, when I was drumbeat
carving the grass becomes a melody
lost to wind. Wind recalls the horse,
reminds of the twitching ears. It stalks
the back field alone, minds the sky, turns
its head to note time of day. Estranged,
it flickers, and I am spellbound waiting
for the refrain to return. I listen
for the wonder, with sun at its back,
to pound in a joy that holds the field open.
Used with perimission of the author.
about this poem
“In early childhood, I lived in a single-level duplex, really an apartment that had a duplicate connected to ours. My young parents rented this little place, and across a rural highway, there was a chestnut horse. Barbed wire marked our backyard, and barbed wire also bordered the field. It was like the horse and I were held by the same fence. The horse was a childhood talisman, prompting me to think about how we need those past loved images. I clung to that horse as a kid—something I could be, something that could break out of where it was.”
—Katie Chaple
Katie Chaple is the author of Pretty Little Rooms (Press 53, 2012), winner of the Devil’s Kitchen Award from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. She lives in Atlanta.
Read more here Katie Chaple — Press 53
