Three Horses
       

out of their pasture, as if only thistle and burrs
grew there, as if passing the gate promised
meadows knee-deep with grass,

as if worship meant to buck and kick,
as if the two-legged creatures crowding them
were Satan's imps, as if snorts and arched necks

were humility, their dash for the hills
a run at a pillar of fire, as if
delicate legs could carry such mighty torsos,

gopher holes didn't pock the foothills,
barbed wire didn't gouge, scree
didn't avalanche down steep slopes,

as if broken legs were nothing, as if God
held the door of their stable, as if they
were the next gods.

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Copyright © 2012 Susan Elizabeth Howe All rights reserved
from Cimarron Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission