I was given some horses. And the horses carried

my body from the playground to the war and back again.

They must have passed through my life as children,

the men who ran ahead of me, dropping like small animals

who had grown smaller and more furious with each bullet

or number on a die. Otherwise I was cared for, was given

gloves against the rain and made to garden along the road.

I was nowhere. Flickering mountain passes. Trucks sliding

to the left and right. In my father's voice I said get out.

Never mind I was given some horses. Lightbulbs apples

glasses of sweet tea. I worked for a man who wrote

his name on everything. And the horses stood in a field

across from the hospital where I taught you to hold a fork

in your left hand while cutting, in your right while bringing food

to your mouth. You were born between roads that were

never yours. Crayons and magazines, cut-out snowflakes

and paper gowns. You were given some horses, some roads.