Chestnut

by Sam Moe

Close — like the back of a red mare right

before a hungry mouth kick, you know time

is almost up because your mother has turned off

the music, the barn is quiet, the farm is silly-

green and swallowing sheep’s blood, but

you’re captivated by his back walking into

the sun, his hands working at the reins, other

than feeling all wrong and stomach-sick, you’re

fine, your jaw can’t contort anymore, yet

you still eat, you start to forget about choking,

you might even forgive your father, but he doesn’t

remember your existence, perhaps that would

be useless, anyways, back to the back of his

jacket, a man who reminds you of a father as

he’s always weeping, leaving, removing maggots

from infected hooves, there is love all over his

body but none of it is for you, there is a wolf

waiting for him at the edge of the forest with

teeth like heaven, you called to him and received

a wave but no turn around, the field behind

your body is a field lit from the sun, bruised

hues, so many people grabbed you in the mouth,

this is a memory so why can’t he stay, this dream

is barely in ruins, you promise to forget the men /

the house / the box / each time / well water / drain

of blood, come back with an axe, come back with

the right names stuffed in a satchel, the way you

know you’ll never see his eyes again, so swing

low at him like a vulnerable and cold girl alone

in the snow-covered woods, it’s like please give

me a little gentleness, please don’t go, but

if you must, leave the horse.