oats, and sweet
- molasses -
(a barn at midnight-morning,
when horses sleep, and cats dance on
shadowed walls)
there are no words for the
smell of a barn when the sun is not
even creeping on the horizan;
not like the seat you were just in, where you
remembered - too late - the things
forgot,
or the bed you just warmed with dreams, or
not.
horses jump up at footsteps so quiet
(they’re not
so
big
on the ground)
hello, they say,
as sleepy as you please,
and you duck as one tries to
bite your shoulder (out of love they say)
with this damn barn cat following you around
‘i do not have your breakfast,’ but he only
stares right back.
its too early to be mad at fathers,
and too dark to squint at dust in the air
curious faces stare at you
(four legged fat hairy beggars with teeth,
and i am the friar,
handing out alms)
and the only sound you can make out
— besides the shuffle of
beasts—
may be the distant highway
smile - though
(who can see you in the dark)
a barn in midnight-morning,
and when you need a break
from the day to come,
cup your hands, and breathe deep
(for you may have snuck some
molasses in between your fingers )
-Skylar M.
