Foaling Season

1

In the dew-saturated foot-high blades

            of grass, we stand amongst a sea

of foals, mare and foal, mare and foal,

            all over the soft hillside there are twos,

small duos ringing harmoniously in the cold,

            swallows diving in and out, their fabled

forked tail where the story says the fireball

            hit it as it flew to bring fire to humanity.

Our friend the Irishman drives us in the Gator

            to sit amongst them. Everywhere doubles

of horses still leaning on each other, still nuzzling

            and curious with each new image.

2

Two female horses, retired mares, separated

            by a sliding barn door, nose each other.

Neither of them will get pregnant again,

            their job is to just be a horse. Sometimes,

though, they cling to one another, find a friend

            and will whine all night for the friend

to be released. Through the gate, the noses

            touch, and you can almost hear—

Are you okay? Are you okay?

3

I will never be a mother.

That’s all. That’s the whole thought.

I could say it returns to me, watching the horses.

Which is true.

But also I could say that it came to me

as the swallows circled us over and over,

something about that myth of their tail,

how generosity is punished by the gods.

But isn’t that going too far? I saw a mare

with her foal, and then many mares

with many foals, and I thought, simply:

I will never be a mother.

4

One foal is a biter, and you must watch

him as he bares his teeth and goes

for the soft spot. He’s brilliant, leggy,

and comes right at me, as if directed

by some greater gravity, and I stand

firm, and put my hand out first, rub

the long white marking on his forehead,

silence his need for biting with affection.

I love his selfishness, our selfishness,

the two of us testing each other, swallows

all around us. Every now and then, his

teeth come at me once again; he wants

to teach me something, wants to get me

where it hurts.