God’s Country

by Whitney Rio-Ross

When I was a child, we worshiped horses. We loved 

their unbridled force, how an apple compelled adoration 

from what we knew could strike us down. 

We offered them our dollar bets and, in their name, partook 

of bourbon-pecan pie and virgin mint juleps.

My whole family staked our lives on theirs,

one way or another. We took what our patch of earth

could give. No matter our fissures, all brethren shared 

a common tongue and sunrise chores so inbred 

our father’s silence might as well be prayer.

Before I could spell my name, I learned theirs—

Andalusian, Palomino, Clydesdale. 

So it made no sense that we let the neighbor’s mare starve, 

her coat matted over sharp ribs, mining the dirt 

for whatever could draw out death.

My mother said we couldn’t free her to feast

on our empty field. Property laws bound our hands 

strong as any covenant. Land and livestock made a man 

a man—even the worst kind. And she was well past saving, 

couldn’t even bear a blanket of roses.

By the end, she was blind and trembling, possessed 

by needless hunger. She no longer followed 

my voice, scorned promises that I meant no harm.

Still I begged for a breath of absolution, for her tongue 

to lick my empty palm, lick me clean as bone.