The Messenger

Summer

4 3 Summer 1 As if to break my wrist, or will, she foots the glove— makes me know my bones. She is second nature now, like riding a horse at twelve, before my body became my body. At the first touch of air, her wings rise— the vise on my forearm tightens; her hackles are up— three layers of leather punctured and a small cry like an animal’s I realize later is mine. 4 4 2 The horse I paid to ride was nearly blind. It was the last summer of her life. The trail, in August air like old glass, waved us forward. I wanted to be a horse. I still don’t know what happened to her body. No severing, no last look in the eye. All year vultures rode their thermals. One day I came for her and she was gone. ...