Eau de Cheval

by Isabella Boyd

While you’re up north and away from me,

I beg a favor: if ever you meet a horse—

a horse kind and still enough

to allow you to bury your face

in the small valley where his neck meets his shoulder,

do it, and write me about it—

I haven’t smelled a horse neck in a long time.

It should smell like grass,

perhaps with a note of the wild onions

that he crushed as he rolled on the ground,

scratching his broad strong back.

If you sniff deeper, breathe in harder,

there is the red clay that powders everything around here,

leaves rusty traces on new white shoes,

lines sinuses, packs itself into hooves.

Mainly he will smell like a horse,

like wordless animal musk,

the unavoidable stench of life

earned by eating and sweating and living in mountain air-

If you ever smell a horse’s neck, try to remember

what you were before soap

and clean white cotton sheets.