Burying My Horse
“It’s my fault.”
Dad’s face, gray with teared eyes.
“Big Red is dead”.
I held onto the counter.
It is November, I am in the kitchen loading
the dishwasher with the breakfast plates.
Must be about 12.
“Mr. Shannon will use his bulldozer
to dig the hole.” Dad won’t let me go
until it is dug. He doesn’t want me
to see the body taken back to the site.
I imagine my horse on his side,
legs stuck straight out,
a chain around him,
the ‘dozer dragging him.
Diesel fumes and smell of freshly
scraped earth,
a cold body rests
on the naked ground.
Dirt covers Big Red.
Avalon Literary Review
9/14