It was winter under A certain little star: A first day fable? A snow white fable. Pear tree. Prayer. A snow fairy January. The waking orchard: The waking horse. * Pegasus is The source Of our fountain—end and the beginning: These two trains. One train may hide Another Dead horse. * I do not Fear A blessing: instructions On how to put an old horse down. It was winter (A blessing) And day brought back my night—I am that I am: a horse In a baggage room At Greyhound, praying Drunk. * This is just to say “Pray.” This is just to say of heaven And animals “A dog Has died.” I would like to describe the dusk Of horses travelling Through the dark. I would like To describe how to like it—bone and Silence, the death, by fire, Of a child in London, Of London snow, London rooftop (The city in which I love the street With no shop On the corner, this hour And what is dead), What I am: Fork with two tines Pushed Together, two women In a barn playing With fire. * In view of the fact It was a glass winter And I a dim lady playing with fire, what Do women want: $2.50? A purple bathing suit? Sex With strangers or To sit a summer Morning In a small screen-house with old men? God, Bless their hearts—a prayer Before bed (another lullaby For insomniacs): “In heaven it Is always autumn” Or “On the mountain, Mother Lets off a little steam.” * So what Do women want? Power? Breasts? The Gentleman of Shallot! No more grapefruit! So what the hell, Rage, give into graces. While you were away: 4 A.M. While you were away: The one night stand. While you were away: Lawrence. E pluribus unum, Lawrence. Lawrence, Do you love me? * I lost my horse, Lawrence— I lost my horse, Horse, To fairy-tale logic (“Heaven’s always autumn”) In a beautiful country: no one here But us. In a beautiful country— No one here but us— A very hot day Is our other sister, Yet horses At midnight without a moon Weather The moon in your breath— A piece of the storm— And what isn’t mine: Good-bye, Horse. Cold, good-bye. David Antonio Moody
David Antonio Moody writes out of Tallahassee, FL where he pursues a PhD in poetry at Florida State University. Former poetry editor for Saw Palm and Juked, David is production editor of Cortland Review and Southeast Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sweet, Eleven Eleven, 22 Magazine, Spillway, and Artful Dodge. When not camping, researching Ukranian violinists, or lecturing on Carthusian manuscripts, he spends time in his hometown, eating in Florida oldest diner and watching the local river flow north.
Artwork: “the time traveller” by sugarmints