By Lynne Thompson
The harness shape-shifts beyond the horizon—
has done for as long as memory. On an
ordinary Monday, with less than the minutes
they’ll need to ready for ruin, a siren sounds.
They recognize the sound as menace, death.
Lucky for once, they shudder below ground,
ride it out until there’s nothing left to hear or
hope for. But for the horses—thoroughbreds
and half-breeds alike—“Tornado Alley”
can’t be outrun or hidden from. One Monday
in May, horseflesh will fly through the air like
twigs, their hooves like shrapnel until they
come to rest, twisted amidst high voltage wires,
every barn where the horses lived, leveled.
One filly whines beneath a stable’s doors,
pinned on her side, her ears tipped forward.
There lie two stallions: one rests on the other’s
neck, his left eye torn away, tears in that void.