When my mother was
nursing her horse to death

her three unborn sons
watched from the woods.

We were all so cold.
Unborn and unable to think

Warmth.

We learned a horse’s wet eyes then.
We learned the lean towards death.
We learned the low purr of life.

Our Grandfather,
who would never hold us,
came out of the house.
Shotgun came too.

The feverish
Spring of his fingers
playing on the trigger.

We coughed
and threw down seeds.

A Poem
in that
Small Scream.

Another Poem
in the Spring
that had made us
want to plant ourselves.