S a r a h N i c h o l s
After Henri Rousseau’s War (Cavalcade of Death)
I had always dreamt of a horse, so
tonight I rode out on a beast of smoke, and
I can still taste the heavy metal of blood.
Not copper. Iron. The horse-grime
eased into my clothes.
Their rigor was like Antietam.
Pale against the obsidian cloud.