| It’s summer here so soda pop and blue jeans in the trees. I am peeling my sunburn on a bus bound for Saratoga Springs where I will lob my father’s ashes on the line where the racehorses finish one at a time, and as they do, the mist of a million particles of ash in the air, all likeness will disappear between us. I had built a boundary out of skin where I sat quietly until blood was the only moving thing on a map of where we are. On the dirt track, horses fill their lungs in the sun and urge on. When a losing horse dips its head to greet me, his black whiskers tickle the flesh of my neck. Why do all hearted creatures stink? I am asked by my brother’s youngest child, Is horse your favorite or least favorite mammal? I say don’t beg the Lord if the sky is a gray roof beneath which you have waited all day to see gallop something graceful, swift. Copyright © 2016 Christopher Salerno. Used with permission of the author. |
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