and it came to pass
BY GRANT MCCLURE
for my sister
Working late shift Lexi studies monitor
for the rise and fall of contraction, mare
prostrate in hay bed–lined stall, the night
cold for Florida—then it just happens,
feet slip into rubber boots, a rush to barn,
grunts and snorts and a colt pushed from
the warmth of womb, that familiar pinkness
replaced by concrete cinder block and night
air, steam swirls rising from matted hair,
a white stripe streaks muzzle slick with mucus
and confusion, legs flailing under the weight
of life—the mother laps her tongue against
newborn, cleans blood left by placenta,
a last reminder of that prior existence,
all the while Lexi watching on, a median
between two worlds, horses indifferent
to such divinity, like an angel visible only
in the quiet hours when rats scale power
lines and mud-caked scrubs give way
to feathered wings and the silence of flight.
