Yarrow House

White Horse Running

I was five, in my father’s arms. 
The great workhorses galloped by, 
their hooves rumbling on the soft, dry earth. 
“That's Queenie,” my father said, 
proud voice saying, “See the Queen.” 
I saw her white flashing head turned, 
her mane rough against 
the glistening black coats of the rest.

The Queen died.

Our cat died too, when he was thirteen, 
old and senile. My parents put him to sleep 
and buried him in the flower bed. 
And so I discovered, yes,
all brave and wonderful creatures, 
even true friends,
died or were killed. 

I want to scoop them back out of the earth,
deny the earth change they have undergone, 
breathe new life into them. 
See, this was the bird my cat ate.
Here is my lizard I forgot to feed, 
my sister's dog who fought 
the German shepherd down the road. 
And here are my friends.

They drip stones and dirt, 
gritty in my fingers,
still breathing through the wounds
their leaving left. Unhealed. 
Reopened by the casual events 
that slowly fill the earth with bodies.

Published in The Immigrant, Court Street Press, (1984).

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Onetime reproduction for non-resale purposes permitted by the author with the following credit line: by J Yarrow