Hillary Berg, West, Daybreak (Artist Website)
Archival Inkjet Print from Kodak Portra Film
I am pinned between my horse’s ribs
and frozen mud—she swings her head
to stare like I’m some dog tick
gone sour.
I cry hot into the wind
like the time—four, maybe
five—I dove teeth first into the grass
from swinging on my stomach; it’s not
much different, though
at thirty-one there aren't warm hands
or a lap, so I crawl into a bar stool, chasing
one glass of cheap wine with one more—
someone pats me on the back.
I drive home along the river, the sun drags,
burns a hole right through the rapids—
hell-bent and breakneck against the truck.
Faster than you can run, he had said
when I asked how fast fire moved. I wait
for a cloud-blink and rollback west, slipping
under another day’s charred wake,
boot-tip-toeing over shadows
like coal,
last lights—falling
still to windburn, remembering I left
the far gate open, the dog
sighing, sore-boned but sound
asleep.