I loved you, you know.
Never mind that I was nine
years old and couldn’t get
on by myself. Never mind

the velvet hat that flew
off, the long fidgety trail
of riders, the bus horn
and the bolt. I love you

even now. I mean that.
If I could, I’d take the snaffle
bit from your mouth, lead you
back to your dry box stall

where it still smells of alfalfa,
sunlight and AM hits from 1964.
I’d take your paddock picture
and use it as my desktop, brush

your coat with a curry comb, whisper
what I was not too small to guess
before the headaches, daydreams
and doctors. It was not your fault.

Selected byNolcha Fox
Image credit:Angelina

Sara Clancy is a Philadelphia transplant to the Southwest.  Her chapbook Ghost Logic won the 2017 Turtle Island Quarterly Editors Choice Award. Among other places, her poems have appeared in Off the Coast, The Linnet's Wings, Crab Creek Review, The Madison Review, Misfit Magazine, Avatar Review and Verse Wisconsin. She lives in the desert with her husband, their dog, two ordinary cats and a psychotic cross-eyed one.