Black Stallion

The stallion was here again, you tell me,
Peering in the front windows, pacing
Up and down. I wasn’t home.

The other times I caught him; he came
Right to me, soft-eyed as I snapped
The shank to his halter and led him back.

He belongs to the new people who bought Grant’s
Place. It’s a different culture, I tell my neighbor Aimee,
Who disapproves of the way the horse is tied

For hours to a tree, how they gallop him
Up and down the asphalt drive. I say
Useless to call the county—he’s in good

Flesh, hair-coat shiny, bright-eyed,
Well fed, groomed, newly shod.
She says the man hits him, well I’ve hit

Plenty of horses in my time and say so
Trying to be fair. Today, he had no halter, his owner yelling
And brandishing a whip. The stallion

Took one look and took off.
I guess he caught him because when I was out
In the barn tonight, I could hear the man shouting

In a language I don’t understand
And the stallion shrieking
In a desperate soprano and I’m thinking

One of them is going to get killed.

Midwestern Gothic