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Exile (The Spellbound Horses)

In a field, a house.

Asleep in the house, a girl.

From the barn behind the house, happy whinnying,

the carnival smell of shit and hay.

Blue lupine rims the field, bends

in a crescendo of wind.

And the jasmine—

threaded through the arbor,

drunk with the scent of itself—

the jasmine pulls the storm in,

twists the dark cone from cloud

and tugs it earthward.

Spins it toward the barn.

The cone parts the roof to peer

at the horses, black as pupils,

so silent: a mime of fright.

The cone peels back the walls,

shreds the beams and joists,

flings the partition that once formed

their stalls.

Now they are together,

can step into the field

and mouth the supple grasses.

They can cross the lupine

into the brilliant beyond, alone as gods.

When will the sleeping girl know their sorrow?

Who will bring them sugar at the end of the world?

from Poetry Northwest 12.2 Winter & Spring 2018More by Chelsea Wagenaar from the library

Copyright © Chelsea Wagenaar
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.

Published in Chelsea Wagenaar Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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