GRAY SUNDAY, 1963
I was at the sink stacking dishes in the washer
after breakfast. Dad’s face appeared
at the kitchen door. Something was wrong.
I don’t remember how they told me.
My horse was dead, spooked
into a metal post, must have hit
an artery, bled to death.
It was Sunday. God didn’t let
things like this happen.
Didn’t go to church that day.
We had to bury Big Red.
My parents wouldn’t let me watch.
The bulldozer had to drag him to the hole.
Spent the rest of the day trying to be brave
but after every phone call, I cried some more.
I’ve had other horses,
watched one die
as wind picked at his mane.
But I haven’t been back to church.
