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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