White Horses
My magic kit is a battered box
with a bending spoon and a coin
to pull out of somebody’s ear.
I count white horses
from the back seat of the Chevy
as Dad drives us to Lennox
and Sioux Falls. To see 100
white horses makes a wish come true.
After I slowly add up to 20, I know
I’m counting the same sad horses
again and again where they stand
in fields and dirt lots. I hear that
when skin forms on a bowl of hot
milk, a ghost takes it up as her
physical body. That’s how I imagine
a second self sitting right next
to me. She takes my hand lightly.
Both of us hear a siren scream
down the avenue toward the park.
Our eyes blink. A few old
horses chew on grass. We bear
the weight of three crows uh-uhing
and church bells so loud
they pulse through our skin.
About the Author: Barbara Daniels’ most recent book, Talk to the Lioness, was published by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. Her poetry has appeared in Main Street Rag, Free State Review, Philadelphia Stories, and many other journals. She received four fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.
Image Credit: Winslow Homer “White Mare” (1868) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 