MARE
MARIEL FECHIK
When I was eight there was a nightmare that pulled like a hooded horse, eyes
capped & bucking. It was my mother who attempted to pry the image of dark
blood from my head, my father who clamped his mouth shut. The half-opened slat
blinds yellowed everything / I kept my eyes open & open & open / til
light. Twelve years later there is a nightmare with black birds. I wake / midday,
sweating on a couch. The horse kicks–
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