poem, poetry, Uncategorized

old rags

kneeling in the road, the prostrate thing
had a tail gently lifted

a bound pair of hooves
stuck from an eyelet
through a coarse web of lavender yolk

shaking, the steam from inside her
puffed onto my hands

she spooked and my pooling mouth
choked up, she urged to get off
to the ditch or beyond

for hours she complained high in her throat
and the thing had hardly moved
only at the shins now and pulsing
as she pushed

the knife was wrapped in old rags there

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