You remember the time you entered a field, having travelled
a long way holding an apple, which you tried
to feed to the horse grazing in the high grass.
The horse insisted “I am not a horse,
but a house that happens to look like a horse.”
You even opened the door on its throat
and thrust your finger into the cavity
where all of its horse-shaped furniture tumbled
out. You left the field and horse-house to gather
its horse-furniture spread among the weeds.
You didn’t want to be the one responsible for rearranging
the furniture and appliances in the throat
of a confused stranger. You did not see
the group of children holding balloons
who gathered around the ground as it filled
with dust, blood, and loose teeth.
Children who stepped over everything asking
to be forgiven as they fell.
Albert Abonado is the Director of Adult Programs at Writers & Books. He is the editor of The Bakery. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in issues of Fourteen Hills, New Ohio Review, Phantom Limb, Pleiades, Sixth Finch, and others. He lives with his wife in Rochester, NY.