The Hoof
Amanda Reynolds

rose out of grass

and my loping pony dodged

it as we cantered on around the wooded track.

I hated

the way it looked, like a slowly

sprouting stiff bloom.

The smoky feathers of the

fetlock were wind-blown clean. I couldn’t imagine

what it was

beneath the sod, or even why

they buried him

in so shallow a grave. Did

any of the other children, who stayed at camp

that short summer

and played midnight hide-and-seek games

see that dead weed?

It only made sense later,

the memory of a dark stall with boards closing

out the view

of long ribs and thin legs, drooped tail.

I never said

the name that was painted dark

on the wall. (It was Shadow.)  I was out chasing

Pegasus.

And I never touched that tombstone.

I never did.  I never did.