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.

 

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