top of page



S a r a h   N i c h o l s 


Smoke Horse


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.



bottom of page