Jenny Mary Brown



And when it is over, we still wait.
The colt, who took that tiny gallop,
is all buckled knees now, lying

in the pink-tinged soaked straw.
Our mare, with her chestnut coat
still slicked with birth, eyes blinking

slow like a gate opening, closing,
but still while standing, expecting

just something small, worthless,
to kick up at, then lie while we shovel        
out the hay, freshen up the stall.

It must come soon—must die
the weak death by exposure
before its dark toxins seep in.







In the past 5 or 6 years, our mare has had quite a few foals. Every time, we're on edge. There's so much that can go wrong—so much danger involved. And yet, it is quite beautiful to behold. It reminded me of Whitman's "Every hour of light and dark is a miracle," from "Poem of Perfect Miracles." This slight skirting of darkness is also a miracle: it nourishes in the womb and then serves no other purpose but to be expelled.