At the Edge of the Hennessey Farm
       

The Paint nickered, trotted toward us, lowered
its broad soft nose to our dog, and I wondered
why dogs and horses, even parakeets, touch noses,
how we might better love the world and trust
each other if we too touched noses as matter of
exploration, bumped shoulders, allowed
ourselves to hug more, think less.
                              I thought of the mahout I saw
in a photograph, his elephant exploring his face
with its trunk, and the way dolphins came to explore
my kayak in the Pacific, the way they brushed
alongside, stuck noses in the air to tap
my outstretched palm.
                              We stood there and after a long moment,
the horse raised its nose to me, extended quivering lips
to the jacket pocket where I stored dog treats. I placed
my palm first on its nose and then rubbed the plane
between its eyes, tried to understand why
                              we deny each other the culture
of touch, which isn't about us, but about being animal, about
being a part of this world instead of apart from this world,
why when sirens ring in the background, I have trouble imagining
a person. I think about how, when you place your hands
on my shoulders, just briefly, I feel whole.

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Copyright © 2013 Liz N. Clift All rights reserved
from Rattle
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission