Feeding

Eight thirty and the branch
has broken. This year's apples
are on the ground. I don't
want to be here — tossing fruit over
a fence to a horse. I wish
we had a better existence.
I don't love this horse — she isn't
mine and she can sense that I'm afraid
of her jumbo teeth. Look
around. So much of the world
has teeth. I won't eat you — they say.
I say what it takes to unlock
the box too. Apples thud near
her front hooves, her nose
rolls them, her head raises, an
apple is being lifted by
her teeth. Dozens
to go and her jaw closes
sideways around them, juice
and bits shooting from her mouth.
Sad apples. I should have
mentioned to them, blossoming
in the barnyard delivers this end.

Copyright © 2003 Kristen Tracy All rights reserved
from Northwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission