behindtheax

at the wake

my sister’s long dead pony came trotting into the parlour
through the open accordion doors and across the dog-eared carpet.
His Roman nose and golden eyes set his winter coat a fire.
His double mane was still thick as rope. His body a round barrel.
A devil from our childhood who escaped on summer evenings
to raid the neighbour’s gardens and to gallop through their fields

and on those nights we searched for him, looking for that bush thick mane,
shaking a dented coffee can, calling out his boyish name
– laying down clean memories –
but only in his good time appear, this frosty apparition.
Slice of moon in the trees handing him his halo and never would he come to
us so that we could grab his halter.

and here again, more ghost than then. Tossing his head, more foe than friend
with ears laid back against his skull – he pranced behind the mourners

- A campfire blaze -

a wondrous site and I searched my pockets for cert or gum
hoping hard but came up with none and without an offering
he sidestepped me and I wanted so much to touch him

He trotted past the red poinsettias and trotted past the casket
where my sister in her coldness lay, fixed shadows to the satin
and her pony seemed to know her not for she was twelve when he was hers.
So he broke into a broken gallop and loped around the people there and I swore he paused a second longer when his strawberry coat again came near
And in this circle that he kept up. His shaggy coat a blended blur.
Her fiery beast of a younger time. It broke my heart to see him there.

My sister spoke, she said his name, the room went white, her pony flared
for a second she was everywhere.
He halted when my sister called. He turned about on hoofs unshod.
He listened with his ears now up. He nickered loud and nodded low and followed – through the taker’s door
and certainty fell down on me - fell down hard, made me see
while solace filled each mourner’s mouth, yesterday had cut me out.

posted by mary j. @ 9:48 AM